Pamela Mitford: The Country Girl

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Pam and Debo, Lismore 1979. Source: Nick Harvill Libraries 

Unlike her sisters who, with the exception of Debo, left the English countryside and their ancestral home nestled among the sprawling green fields of the Cotswolds, Pamela Mitford never craved the bright lights of London, or any city for that matter. Nancy, a self-confessed, Francophile, ached for Paris and in her forties left the grey landscape of war-torn London and a failed marriage for the City of Light. Diana, too, fled Swinbrook at the age of nineteen, never to return (how could she after she disgraced her family and broke her father’s heart by shacking up with Sir Oswald Mosley?), and eventually settled in Paris and then Orsay. For Unity, the baroque grandeur of Munich caught her fancy and she only returned after a botched suicide attempt left her unable to care for herself. Decca, perhaps the most urban of them all, settled for the suburbs of Oakland, California. But Pam, she never really left the countryside.

From the practicality of her country clothes – quilted jackets, oil skins, Aran knit cardigans, tweed skirts, and woolly tights – to her knowledge of the landscape to the care of livestock, Pam was a country girl to her core. She was hardy and oblivious to the elements, preferring to add another layer rather than turn on the central heating. Diana recalled a visit with Pamela at Riverview Cottage, Swinbrook, and how she was forbidden to turn on the electric blanket while Pam was there. This idiosyncrasy for preserving energy and resources remained all her life, and she could not abide the daily worker squandering water, instead she made her use a bucket to catch the cold water as it heated up. ‘ . . . Then you can take the buckets of tepid water downstairs and out into the vegetable garden, where it is always welcome.’ She did not like throwing furniture away, and if she could not use something (a rare occurrence) she practically talked others into taking it off her hands. ‘It would be quite impossible to get such wonderful armchairs,’ Pamela told Diana, by way of forcing her into re-homing a set of tweed armchairs, which, she boasted: ‘And they’ve got flat arms to put a drink on.’ Perhaps owing to the fact she was not frivolous with her money, she expected others to appreciate the presents she bought for them, especially children: ‘I sent presents [. . .] in time for Christmas Eve, and here it is the third of January and none of those children has written.’

As with her custom of giving away what she no longer needed, Pamela liked to pass on her knowledge to those willing to learn. Of course, being practical and self-sufficient in a family filled with servants, her skills were often exploited, most especially by Nancy. When they were children, Nancy shirked her chores and gave them to Pamela, whom she promised to pay, if she rose early and opened the bedroom curtains. In true Nancy fashion it had been a tease and the payment never materialised, however their mother intervened and forced Nancy to part with her pocket money in exchange for Pamela’s services. Then, a few years later, the children had pet mice and Pamela asked the carpenter to make her a wooden palace for her mouse. Nancy was envious and asked if her mouse could move in, and Pamela suggested she share the feeding and cleaning of the mice, to which Nancy agreed. The mice went hungry and Pamela’s mouse had eaten Nancy’s. Then, as adults, Nancy found herself short of clean clothes and with no means to have them laundered (they were at Inch Kenneth, their mother’s remote Scottish island). She asked Pamela to teach her how to wash them: ‘She did the washing while I stood and looked. Now I’m going to get her to teach me to iron them,’ Nancy wrote to Decca.

Unlike her sisters she did not ride or hunt, owing to a lame leg which had been the result of childhood polio, but she stood behind the guns and prepared the game. Decca wrote in her memoirs, Hons and Rebels, that as a child Pamela had wanted to be a horse and spent hours galloping across the lawn, and when she grew up ‘she married a jockey’. This was typical Decca, for Pamela’s husband, Derek Jackson, was an amateur steeple-chaser and excellent horseman, but his main profession was that of a physicist. The solitude of a country house, its stone walls and unspoiled views, suited her character. Although good fun, a witty raconteur (not as quick as Nancy, but still funny in a gentle way), she was essentially a loner. She did not look for attention, although it often found her, and she took male admiration in her stride, never really aware of how pretty she was (golden hair, clear complexion, no need for make-up), and always downplaying her housekeeping skills. Having learned the art of running a big house from Muv, and despite being, what we would diagnose today as, dyslexic, she had a head for household accounts and was a natural cook, using her instincts and common sense when preparing and measuring ingredients. Debo gave her full credit for inspiring the kitchen garden at Chatsworth House. She could, to quote her nephew Jonathan Guinness, ‘make soup out of her head’, that is, she had a photographic memory serving as a cookbook, and she understood the compatibility of herbs and spices. Indeed, she often spoke of writing a cookbook but to our everlasting disappointment the idea was rejected by ‘Jamie’ Hamilton, the publisher Hamish Hamilton, who gave Nancy her platform. I speak for a large majority when I say Pam’s would-be cookbook is a real loss to the literary canon.

Like those who have spent their lives amongst the ebb and flow of the landscape and its seasons, Pamela understood the cycle of animals and the unsentimental purposes they served. As a young woman she managed her brother-in-law Bryan Guinness’s farm at Biddesden, and she learned about agriculture and husbandry. It was not a seamless transition from debutante to farmer, and during those novice years she accidentally won an expensive cow at auction, only to discover ‘the brute was bagless’ and therefore useless for milking. Later, during her marriage to Derek Jackson, she bred Aberdeen Angus but was forced to give them up during WWII when land was needed to grow potatoes; she especially missed her bull, a Black Hussar, who had ‘been sent to the butcher’. She could be tough, too, and was forced to make difficult decisions during the war – when Diana was imprisoned at Holloway a beloved mare was living at Pamela’s farm and was slaughtered, and she also had Diana’s dog euthanised. Although, at the time and facing an uncertain future in prison, Diana failed to understand Pamela’s decision.

When she lived in Ireland, towards the end of her marriage to Derek, Pamela was responsible for the clearing out and selling of their marital home, Tullmaine Castle, in County Tipperary. There was an estate sale of its contents, supervised by Pamela, and eggs preserved in brine exploded, prompting her to say: ‘Nothing is to leave this house until it is paid for.’ Despite the eggs exploding, Pamela was cheered when glasses from Woolworth fetched four times the amount she paid for them and were still obtainable from the shop. She remained in the house, after its sale, as a tenant and when the workmen came to rewire the house she asked the new landlord for a dairy cow, as the workmen had no milk for their tea. They used a pint a day, and so Pamela bought four piglets which she reared on the extra milk, and sold the rest to a creamery. A typical Pamela thing to do: she was frugal all her life, and not only did her pets bring her great joy, she also kept animals for commercial purposes.

An animal lover who had many dogs and ponies throughout her life, Pamela could easily abandon a trip to Paris when her pet dachshund looked at her sadly, as dachshunds are apt to do. During her middle-age she spent several years in the 1960s living in Switzerland with her companion (Decca referred to her as Pamela’s ‘German wife’), Swiss-Italian horsewoman Giuditta Tomassi. The reason for her settling in Switzerland, as she told German Elle, was because her dogs (after the article’s publication they became known as the Elles) were very old and she thought they would prefer to spend their last days on the Continent. Thoughtful to her four-legged friends and treating them with the utmost care (often she panicked when they were carsick, thinking it was rabies), she did indeed stay until her dogs died. A poultry expert (self-taught, of course), she used her time in Switzerland learning about Swiss chickens and hens, and she is credited with introducing the Appenzeller Spitzhauben breed of chicken to Britain, having smuggled its eggs through British customs inside a chocolate box. Who would dare to question a well-bred Englishwoman carrying a box of Swiss chocolates through an airport? When she returned to England during the Christmas holidays she used her car to transport cheap Swiss household goods, and begged of her sisters not to buy her a present, as she was far more preoccupied with dishwasher salt, bought in bulk, and other cleaning paraphernalia. When the inevitable happened and her dogs died, Pamela left Switzerland where, according to Diana, ‘She was Queen there for ages.’ Debo agreed: ‘In Zurich she is Empress. All her friends are multis and wherever one goes one hears the cry “Pamela! How wonderful to see you!”’

There was a practicality to Pamela, that was otherwise lacking in her sisters. Rarely was her head turned by a celebrity and she refrained from obsessive romantic crushes the other girls developed. Seated next to Lord Mountbatten at a smart function, she was far from dazzled when he referred to her nickname ‘Woman’, and said: ‘I know you are Woman.’ Yes, she responded, and demanded to know who he was. When she had a private audience with Hitler, along with her mother, she exchanged recipes for wholemeal bread with him and complimented the new potatoes served at luncheon. Food occupied much of her thoughts, and she could recall an event merely by its menu – ‘in our brief twenty-five minutes she managed to tell us every menu between Zurich and here’. During a dinner party she sat next to a Frenchman and shared with him a long menu for cooking pork, related in French (she was fluent in both French and German), and said: ‘Il faut le couper LÀ‘ and pointed to the place on her leg to demonstrate where the meat should be cut. On another occasion and in a similar setting, she told two guests to ‘smash the potatoes in the best olive oil’. Such stories were referred to by the family as ‘Woman’s Sagas’. New friendships were formed over her food, and she was renowned during her time in Tipperary for her hunting teas. There was also a period when she had blue Aga, its hue chosen to match her eyes.

Although all her life Pamela had been the victim of her sisters’ teasing, and, as Diana said, ‘Pam was often right but seldom listened to’, she was the sister they relied on most. When Diana was imprisoned, two of her four children went to live with Pamela at Rignell House, her farm in Berkshire, but Pamela did not care much for babies and although the children were well looked after, she didn’t have the maternal instinct Diana had. She boasted of making Alexander, then twenty-months, walk through a field of bristles, and she spoke of a close encounter with a fighter plane on a walk with the children. The letters sent to Diana in prison were far from comforting and she worried about Alexander’s ‘poor little legs’. Described by Decca as ‘half mad, half vague’, she wondered why Pamela never had children of her own as ‘she’d have made a super mum’ – it seemed Decca, who lacked her sister’s domesticity, thought Pamela’s chief talents of housekeeping, cooking, and driving were the makings of a good parent. She was also the sister Nancy looked to most, when she was dying of cancer, which remained undiagnosed and largely untreated. ‘The only real answer is Woman,’ Diana said. She stayed at Nancy’s Versailles house, a place she disliked as she found it claustrophobic, and gave up much of her motoring around the Continent and time with Giuditta, to be at Nancy’s disposal. A stream of sisters and relatives came to visit, and Decca flew in from California and asked what she could do to help. ‘Well, I always make my own bed on the day Mme. Guinon (Nancy’s daily help) doesn’t come,’ Pamela said. She did her duty of tending to Nancy, comforting her during painful attacks, weathering her insults, helping around the house, and weeding the garden. When it was over, and Nancy died, Pamela said to Diana: ‘Let’s face it, she’s ruined four years of our lives.’

After years of living in Switzerland with Giuditta and her dogs, Pamela returned to the English countryside. Years before, she had bought Woodfield House, in Gloucestershire, with money from Tullamaine’s estate sale. She spent a contented old age, with her black Labrador for company, and continued to breed poultry – such an expert, in 1984 she had been invited on a television show to discuss chickens (‘Woman ought to have her own chicken chat show,’ Debo said). And, until her leg afflicted by childhood polio grew weaker, she spent winters with Diana in South Africa. Largely referred to as the ‘quiet Mitford’ and the ‘forgotten sister’, Pamela’s star turn came in 1980 when she appeared on-screen in Nancy Mitford: A Portrait By Her Sisters. Filmed in her natural habitat; she sat on a tree stump on the banks of the River Windrush, let her pony off for a run, and stoked her Aga stove. Before her death in 1994, Pamela had been staying with an old friend in London, when she fell down steep stairs and broke two bones in her weak leg. She was operated on, but did not recover, and died in hospital. In true Pamela fashion, her last (known) words were, ‘What won the Grand National?’

Quotes taken from The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters and Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford

Published in The Mitford Society: Vol V 

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The Mitford Society Vol V

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The Mitford Society is pleased to present its fifth annual, with contributions from Meems Ellenberg, Kathy Hillwig, Robert Morton, Gail Louw, Chiara Martinelli, William Cross, May Tatel-Scott, Ella Kay, Terence Towles Canote, Kim Place-Gateau, Meredith Whitford, and Lyndsy Spence. It has been released early this year to mark Decca’s 100th birthday! The table of contents includes:

A Mitford Mimicry: A Mitford Tease

Six Sonnets for Six Sisters

The Most Dangerous Moment of All: Decca Mitford and the Plot to Escape

The Loves of Jessica Mitford: Chapter Two

Decca Mitford: The Entrepreneurial Communist

A Sheepish Short Story

Bertie Mitford and the Birth of Modern Japan

Almost a Bohemian: Diana Mitford and the Bloomsbury Set

The Disappearing Act of Miss Muriel Perry

The Mitford Sisters: A One Woman Play

Pamela Mitford: The Country Girl

Nancy in Venice

Love Him, Loathe Him: Tom Mitford Revisited

Revisiting Chatsworth and House Style: Five Centuries of Fashion at Chatsworth

Debo and The Whopper: The Devonshire Diadem

A Dangerous Devotion: Venetia Montagu and Henry Asquith

A Tale of Two Susans: Nancy and Decca

What Would Decca Do: A Muckraker’s Legacy

Murder in the Hons’ Cupboard: The Original Mitford Murder, and Then Some…

Available from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

 

 

Mariga Guinness: Princess, Preservationist, Icon

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The extremes of Mariga’s life, the hollow memories of a lonely childhood and the abandonment she felt from both parents, inspired in her a resilience against the modern world. Born Princess Hermione Marie-Gabrielle von Urach, on 21 September 1932, she was not expected to live, owing to an infection she caught at birth. Two months later, she recovered and Mariga would consider the month of November as her real birthday.

She was descended from the German royal house of Württemberg, as was Mary of Teck, the Queen Consort of King George V. ‘She is much more German than my Great-Aunt Elisabeth, Queen Mother of the Belgians,’ Mariga said. Related to every royal house in Europe, Mariga’s pedigree was older than the Windsors; her grandfather was briefly the King of Lithuania, a great-grandmother had married the Prince of Monaco, and she was related to Elisabeth ‘Sissi’, the Empress of Austria. Years later, she attended a dinner party and a guest spoke of Sissi and her alleged affair with King Ludwig, to which Mariga said: ‘They were just cousins.’ The guest challenged her response, claiming that neither he nor Mariga could be certain for they were not alive during those days. ‘I have it on good authority,’ she told him. She did not confess that Sissi and Ludwig were among her regal ancestors. But, then again, her upbringing had been a world away from her noble birthright.

Born in London to Prince Albrecht von Urach and Rosemary Blackadder (pronounced Black-a-derr), of Scots and Norwegian descent, Mariga’s parents identified themselves as artists. Albrecht counted Pablo Picasso as a close friend, and he painted the first commissioned portrait of Adolf Hitler, but it was declined because Hitler thought the staring eyes made him look mad. Adding to his false start as an artist, he convinced his mother to pay for an exhibition in London and he managed to sell one painting, which critics thought not very good. Rosemary’s income came from journalism, and she had been employed by the Daily Express to work two or three days a week for the Manchester edition. She was sent on assignments to interview interesting people, such as Feodor Chaliapin but his interview answers consisted of sex and violence, and so it could not be printed. Aside from her writing which she often illustrated, and brief engagement as an actress in the play And So To Bed, she could not hold down a job and depended on her mother to send her money. It was during a trip to Norway to visit her cousins that Rosemary had met Albrecht – it had also been reported that she met him at the German Embassy in Paris. Despite being two years younger and engaged to a Spanish aristocrat, he proposed to her and she accepted. Though, according to her sister, Erica, she did not love him and had no interest in raising their baby. When her sister asked to see Mariga, Rosemary said: ‘We don’t show the baby to strangers.’¹

With little money, and the royal house in a perilous position following the First World War, Albrecht would have to work for a living. For a brief period he, Rosemary and Mariga lived in Venice, where he eked out a living as a painter but it was not enough to keep a family. Thus, he accepted a post as a correspondent for the German Embassy in Japan, working as, among other things, a photo-journalist covering the Chinese-Japanese war. Prior to the family setting up home in Japan, Rosemary had visited her brother Ian in California because, according to her sister, Rosemary dreamt of becoming a film actress. When she failed to land a screen test she lay around Ian and his wife’s apartment, shooing away her small nieces. ‘Go away, little girls. Go away,’² she said. She had no interest in her own child, and she could not abide the curious children whose framed photographs she had turned to face the wall. Her brother’s stepdaughter, the future burlesque star Lili St Cyr, observed her step-aunt with interest. And although they were not related by blood, Lili, known as Willis in those days, felt a deep affinity with this fragile, glamorously made-up woman with dyed blonde hair and purple eyes, who had swapped her ordinary life for a royal title and world travel. Before Rosemary left America, she wrote to Albrecht and told him that artists were sought for an animated film and it might be a chance for him to earn good money. He declined her proposal to move to California, and the film in question had been Walt Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

It was in Kamakura, Japan, at an early age, that Mariga’s love of buildings was born. Years later, when a friend spoke of their talent for buying and selling houses for a profit, Mariga commented that a ‘house is for always’. To her, a house had a soul and to neglect a house was on par with neglecting a human-being, or worse: the latter could speak up for itself. She was given an informal education, perhaps a rebellion against her mother’s own academic career. Rosemary had been to Girton College at Cambridge, on a scholarship, where she read Modern Languages and English. But she left her studies due to illness, after which she travelled around Europe with a puppet show. Beforehand, Rosemary had got into trouble with the police and was fined 10-shillings for riding her bicycle along a dark road without a lamp, and when questioned she said: ‘I am very sorry; I was only going very slowly.’³ Mariga’s lessons were compiled of drawing (she inherited her mother’s artistic talent), literature, music, dancing, foreign languages, and sight-seeing. The famous spy, Richard Sorge, taught little Mariga to play chess. And Rosemary instructed her to look at things as an artist would.

Having been accustomed to travelling and meeting people along the way, this new solitary existence did not bode well for Rosemary and, in spite of her surroundings, she suffered from a lack of social life. Her husband was in China, reporting on the war, and her only companion was her child. The Japanese did not mix with foreigners, and the staff at the Embassy, regardless of her husband’s lineage, were aloof. This, along with being thrown from her horse and suffering a concussion for the third time, added to a breakdown in health. Rosemary’s pendulum of moods, governed by a deep depression, cast a shadow over Mariga’s briefly idyllic childhood. ‘I adored Maman, though sometimes I was terrified by her unreasonable temper,’⁴ she wrote in a letter to her father. It appeared Albrecht was also exasperated by his wife’s temperament, for he came home from China and found her throwing the furniture out of the house, with a crowd of onlookers gathered close by.

In 1937, Rosemary’s mental stability collapsed. She was convinced Emperor Hirohito was being misled by his generals, and she took Mariga to Tokyo so she could relay the message to the Crown Prince in person. Her sister Erica wrote that Rosemary stormed into the Imperial Palace with the intention of drowning the Crown Prince, and when she did not succeed she then tried to drown Mariga. She was restrained by guards, injected with morphine, and put on board the Scharnhorst, en route to Europe, with two nurses. The nurses, however, were ditched by Rosemary in Marseilles and she continued her trip to London alone. Then, in London, she decided she wanted to meet Hitler and travelled to Berlin with the intention of doing so. Staying at the Adlon, she slit her wrists with a glass inkstand,⁵ and on a later occasion she supposedly lost part of her nose from jumping through a closed window.⁶ She left for Scotland to live with her mother, but at nightfall she disappeared and her mother had to search for her, thinking her corpse would be found in the river.⁷ Eventually, with Albrecht wishing to take no responsibility for his wife, Rosemary was put into an asylum at Morningside, Edinburgh.

This incident, and what would follow, would leave a lasting impression on Mariga. At the age of six she travelled alone on a Japanese liner to England and was met by Hermione Ramsden, her elderly godmother known as Aunt Mymee. With her mother sectioned against her will at Morningside Mental Home, where she was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and her father working in Europe, free of parental and marital ties, she became Mymee’s responsibility. They set up home in Haslemere, Surrey. And they would spend their summers in Norway, in the ten-acre wood at Slidre, which Mymee had bought in 1917. She had built several wooden huts, executed in a traditional Norwegian style with elaborate carvings, overlooking the Jotunheim mountains. An Aubusson carpet was laid out on the lawn, and hot water came from an enormous tea urn from the Girl Guides in London. An old fashioned Fabian, who believed that art and literature were the birthright of everyone, and devoted to spiritualism, Mymee would play the Ouija board much to Mariga’s criticism. The farmers, too, were wary of the otherworldly channel, for they were afraid her seances would spoil their crops.

This eccentric lifestyle, along with her memories of Japan, conspired to give Mariga an unorthodox education. And, an intellectual herself, Mymee would go through a succession of sixteen governesses to educate Mariga, one being an exiled Ethiopian princess. Mariga liked to tease them by asking inappropriate questions; with one of her governesses, while on an outing to a park in Norway, she pointed to the nude statues and said: ‘Look at that one, don’t you think it looks wonderfully naturalistic?’ When Mariga was old enough, friends would successfully persuade Mymee to send her to the Monkey Club, on Pont Street, a finishing school for upper-class young women, where they learned domestic arts, typing, and how to behave in society. Its name was derived from the motto drummed into the students: ‘Hear no evil, see no evil’.⁸ This turned out to be a blessing, and it played a part in connecting Mariga to her natural family. For, during the winter term, she boarded at More House, a Catholic hostel, and met her cousin Prince Rupert Löwenstein who, in the future, would introduce Mariga to the man she would marry. It is interesting to take note of her cousins on both sides of her family; on her German side she had a smattering of royal cousins spread across Europe, and on her mother’s Scots-Norwegian side her non-royal cousins were living in grander circumstances – her uncle Ian Blackadder’s daughter, Barbara (half-sister of Lili St Cyr), for instance, had a brief Hollywood career before marrying Louis Marx, an American toy-maker and millionaire.

Although Mariga was a mere seven-years-old when the Second World War was declared, she held a romantic notion of war and what it would mean for her. In her heart, she believed she would be reunited with her parents and they would return to Germany, to the family seat Schloss Lichtenstein in Stuttgart. It was not to be, for Albrecht had since moved to Venice, where he rented an apartment from the artist Anna Mahler (Rosemary’s former roommate in Paris), and by chance photographed the first private meeting between Hitler and Mussolini. Her father had considered sending her to relatives in Berlin, but a friend appealed to his better judgment and said it would be cruel to take the child from Mymee. Common sense prevailed, in Mariga’s favour, for the said relatives’ home had been bombed three times and, during this period of her life, Germany would have been a strange place and another upheaval.

In 1939, prior to Britain’s declaration of war, Mariga and Mymee went on their usual trip to Norway. When war was announced, Mymee decided it was too dangerous to attempt a sea-crossing to England. And so they went to Sweden and from there they flew to Brighton. It is possible that Mymee thought her young ward needed a distraction, for she sent her to her first school, at Malvern. Mariga hated it and, too shy to make friends, she convinced Mymee to let her leave. The remainder of the war was spent in the attic at Haslemere, from where she observed Mymee’s guests and sketched caricatures in a jotter. A guest glanced at her drawings and thought she showed genuine talent, but Mariga snatched the jotter away and dismissed their praise. Such shyness was often mistaken for haughtiness.

When the war ended in 1945, Mariga’s dream of reuniting with her family, or her father at least, remained unfulfilled. Nobody came back for her. And Albrecht was charged by German authorities for having created Nazi propaganda, and for membership of the Nazi Party, which he had subscribed to in 1934. His joining the Nazi Party, according to Albrecht himself, was to pursue a career as a journalist. He apologised and there was no action, a lucky escape for his superiors were tried during what became known as the Nuremberg Trials.

In 1949 Mymee sent the sixteen-year-old Mariga on an architectural tour of Paris and Touraine. ‘Paris . . . that sparkling city of beauty and romance . . . with its Vogue models and its Quartier Latin, who would have thought its houses would be so dusty and drab?’⁹ she recorded in her diary. Undertaking the tour with a friend of a similar age named Eva, the girls returned to Mymee in Norway, stopping in Hamburg to visit Albrecht. ‘Suddenly I saw him. I knew him at once. That big head – its hair grey now, that bristly moustache, bad teeth, tall figure and long arms . . . But I didn’t shout MAFFEN, I didn’t burst with hysterical tears,’¹⁰ she wrote in her diary. Albrecht, on his behalf, remained unmoved during their reunion, and he offered Mariga his hand to shake.

After meeting her father she boarded the train and was trembling from shock, and she ‘longed to cry’ at the hopelessness of her father returning to her, or to her mother. It was some time after their encounter that Mariga learned of her parents divorce and of her father’s remarriage, to Ute Waldschmidt, and that he had had two children with his new wife. ‘When I heard about your new marriage in such a horrible, indirect way, you, my God of perfection, were tumbled forever I thought into dust,’ she wrote to her father. She believed that he would come back to her after the war, and would have landed ‘some rich type-writing job, and that Maman would remain cured by money, pretty clothes and you’.¹¹ The trauma of discovering her father’s secret family never left Mariga, but through time she forgave him and they struck up a friendly correspondence. In his letters he advised her to visit several of his relatives as she travelled through Europe, the latter tour being one of Italy with a friend from the Monkey Club.

Before leaving for England, Mariga went to Germany to meet her stepmother and half-siblings for the first time. It was to be an unsuccessful visit, and she wrote to her father with several excuses to justify her churlish mood. It should be noted that friends, throughout the years, spoke of the barrier she put up when speaking to a person; she detested hugs and kisses, and shaking hands. Some have explained this peculiarity as shyness, others praised her for attempting to overcome it. And yet, in an extreme juxtaposition, she appeared to have not been self-conscious when it came to decorum. An example of such was when she came to the breakfast room wearing only a bath towel, and as she passed through, Lady Rosse said: ‘There goes a true aristocrat.’ In the 1960s, Cecil Beaton described, in his diary, an encounter with Mariga. Calling her ‘the Mal Occhio‘ (the evil eye), mad, frightening and horrible . . . like some mad female impersonator creating alarming ambiance wherever she wandered’.¹² Explaining her behaviour to her father, Mariga wrote: ‘I know I behaved badly . . . I have awful manners – all my governesses said so, but I never realise the gaffes till it’s too late to do anything but apologise.’¹³ She also said that she could not love her stepmother, whom she called ‘Momi’, while her own mother was still alive.

At the age of eighteen Mariga was entirely alone, for Mymee had died aged eighty-four. She was without a home, a parental figure, and a steady place in a country that she could not identify with – she held a German passport and continued to romanticise the place of her ancestors. However England had been her home for twelve years and Mymee, as eccentric as she was, had provided her with the only permanency in her young life. The old lady had set aside money for her, fearing the inevitable would come while Mariga was barely out of childhood. From the £16,000 she inherited, she rationed her living expenses at £1 per day. A family named Ford, who were friends of Mymee’s, took her in, and she lived with them at their home in London. They remembered their young lodger going out, swathed in veils, which excited her male admirers. Around this period she had also given herself a new name, inventing ‘Mariga’ from Marie-Gabrielle, and until 1950 she had been called Gabrielle.

Now that Mariga was somewhat independent, one of the first things she did was visit her mother at the asylum. Rosemary had moved from Morningside Mental Home to Craig House, a sixteenth-century house that was converted into a psychiatric hospital.¹⁴ Years before, Rosemary’s mother had thought it would be a good idea for her to take an interest in Mariga. They brought Mariga to the family home in Scotland, and left Rosemary alone with her, and according to Rosemary’s sister they heard shrieks, which they thought were the result of her attacking the child. They could not be certain of this, but Rosemary ran away and for two days the police searched for her. After this incident, and when Mariga was older, Mymee had taken her to visit her mother at Morningside when Rosemary was more or less herself. However, in 1941, Rosemary was given a lobotomy, its method invented by the famous American surgeon, Dr Walter Jackson Freeman. The procedure although cruel was acceptable in its day, and she was subjected to electroshock treatment which rendered her unconscious before the surgeon hammered an ice pick through her eye sockets to destroy tracts of neurons in the brain cortex.¹⁵ This information, it can be assumed, was kept from Mariga. But now the truth would reveal itself, and showing up unannounced she found her mother in a distressing condition and unable to recognise her, saying that her daughter was five-years-old.

With Rosemary’s incurable illness coming to light and then the subsequent rejection of her, Mariga realised how alone she was. A short time later, she introduced herself with the greeting: ‘I am related to the Wittelsbachs and a little bit mad.’ Her aunt Erica was concerned about the stigma surrounding Rosemary’s schizophrenia and how it affected the family, most especially Mariga. Apparently Erica had approached the head doctor at the asylum and asked if Rosemary’s condition was hereditary, and that she was inquiring because Mariga’s father-in-law had wanted to know. ‘If it had been my son,’ said the head doctor, ‘I would have moved heaven and earth not to let that marriage take place.’¹⁶

It was during this rootless existence that Mariga left for Germany, and travelling through the French countryside she spied a beautiful house and asked to be shown around. Pretending she wished to buy it, she asked the estate agent if it had a ghost. He said no, and she said: ‘In that case I will certainly not buy it.’ When she reached Waldenburg she discovered that life for her father, and her royal relatives who had remained in the country, had drastically changed. The von Urach’s castle had been burned down by American troops, and the family lived in log huts on the estate. The conditions were spartan and, aside from their background and breeding, there was no hint of a regal life. They were indebted to the local butcher, who continued to supply meat without payment, and Albrecht wondered how he could afford the bill. Years later, Mariga would invite the butcher to her wedding in Oxford. It warmed the old man’s heart, and it was an example of Mariga as a person; social ranks meant little to her and a kind deed would always be remembered. During this period to make ends meet and to earn pin money for clothes and makeup and, more importantly, books, Mariga did a variety of odd jobs. She modelled for photographers, and she exercised horses at a Waldenburg riding school. Her ingenuity paid off when, longing to meet Gary Cooper, she disguised herself as a reporter and ‘asked him every question that came into her head’.

Returning to England, Mariga had been persuaded by her cousin Prince Rupert Löwenstein to move to Oxford, where she attended an extramural school. Her mother-in-law, Lady Mosley, formerly Diana Mitford, recalled: ‘Mariga was one of those girls who go to Oxford, not as undergraduates but to learn something or other.’¹⁷ Her future husband, a graduate of Christ Church, teased her that she had gone to Oxford to find a husband. He was somewhat right, as Oxford was to serve as a distraction for her broken heart.

Mariga had been in love with her cousin, Prince Moritz von Hessen, and as fate would have it, it ended badly. Prince Moritz’s mother, Princess Mafalda of Savoy, the daughter of King Emmanuel III of Italy, was the wife of Prince Phillip of Hesse, a member of the Nazi Party. Despite Prince Phillip acting as an intermediary between Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, Hitler and Joseph Goebbels believed Princess Mafalda was working against the German war effort. Hitler called her the ‘blackest carrion in the Italian royal house’, and Goebbels echoed his sentiments when he, too, referred to her as ‘the worst bitch in the entire Italian royal house’. She was imprisoned at Buchenwald concentration camp, where the conditions caused her arm to become infected and as a result the guards ordered it to be amputated and she bled to death. The treatment of Prince Moritz’s mother, combined with Mariga’s father having been on good terms with Hitler, conspired against the young couple’s happiness and they were forbidden to marry. Mariga claimed her heart was broken and said she would marry the first man who proposed to her. That man happened to be Desmond Guinness.

Having moved to Oxford in 1951, Mariga was introduced to Desmond Guinness, who was something of a star on the university’s campus owing to his flamboyant sense of style. His handsome looks were set off by bright blue eyes, referred to as ‘Mitford eyes’, the genetic trait of his mother’s family. And Mariga, too, though in those days she adhered to the tailored fashions of the ‘fifties, attracted attention. With her pageboy haircut, elegant nose and ‘devastating smile’, she was considered a beauty and was drawn by Nicholas Egon for his 1952 book, Some Beautiful Women of To-day.

When Mariga and Desmond met they were young, good looking and shared a taste for flamboyance. She was yet to express herself through her signature style, which became prominent in the late 1950s and ’60s: her dark hair piled on top of her head, she wore mini skirts and opaque tights, black patent shoes with buckles at the front, often paired with a jacket from her vast collection of costumes. Perhaps in one another they recognised the strain their respective parents had placed on them. Desmond’s mother, Diana Mosley, was the wife of Sir Oswald Mosley (for whom she had left Desmond’s father, Bryan Guinness) and had befriended Hitler in the 1930s, for which she had been imprisoned at Holloway during the war. Neither Desmond nor Mariga shared their parents’ political views. She came from a crumbling dynasty and her own branch was penniless, and he was a scion of the Irish brewing family. As a second son, he would not inherit his father’s Barony of Moyne, but he was given a substantial inheritance when he turned twenty-one and received an allowance from his Guinness trust fund. However, as generous as his financial situation was in comparison to Mariga’s, Desmond would still have to generate an income for himself and his wife.

On their wedding day, in 1954, Mariga was given away by her father, and although she was a Catholic, she married in an Anglican church. Her royal cousins from Germany had attended, along with Scottish relatives, and her father-in-law Lord Moyne sent a bus to fetch his estate workers. Among the aristocrats and princelings was a stranger named Paddy O’Reilly, who had been invited by mistake. The elderly dustman from Dublin had become something of a celebrity as a result, and was documented by the Irish press and television cameras on his journey from Dublin to Oxford, for the society wedding of the year. Convention never held much esteem for Mariga, and she walked down the aisle wearing only one shoe, as she had misplaced the other. It had also been said that a curious journalist had stolen it.

It seemed only natural that Mariga and Desmond chose to settle in Ireland. And, in the beginning, they haboured a dream of owning a farm. Although born in London, his paternal ties to the country were strong and he spent his summers there, with his father, at Knockmaroon, a stately pile on the edge of Phoenix Park. Mariga was enchanted by the countryside, the ancient ruins, and the Georgian architecture hearkening back to when Ireland had a royal family and a dynastic past. She had first visited Eire several years before, at the invitation of her friend Mark Bence-Jones, and stepped off the aeroplane wearing a tulle ballgown, having come from a party. Before she left, on that particular visit, she said: ‘I can’t think how you can ever leave Ireland.’ As it turned out, she never really would.

She returned to Ireland with Desmond and, for a year, from 1956-57, and they rented Carton House, an eighteenth-century manor house near Maynooth, where their young children, Patrick and Marina, lived up a winding staircase leading to the nursery. But the dream of owning and restoring their own Irish property had never left them. In 1958 Desmond bought Leixlip Castle, a twelfth-century castle in the town of Leixlip, Co. Kildare. Mariga moved into the castle, while Desmond was on a course in London, with four-hundred books, a cat (at one time she had twenty-six cats, all named after friends), and a rifle.

The late 1950s and mid-1960s were to become the golden age of Mariga’s life as a hostess. She and Desmond filled Leixlip with aristocrats, foreign royals, celebrities, local tradesmen, and various colourful individuals they had befriended along the way. The parties thrown in the winter of 1958 set the tone, and they continued until four o’clock in the morning. When Desmond became tired he wound up an antique Gothic organ which played ‘God Save the King’, and this signalled it was time to go home.

In the early ’60s, Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden (who, when he was simply Antony Armstrong-Jones, had photographed Mariga on honeymoon in Venice) came to Ireland and were put up by Mariga and Desmond. Naturally, given the status of southern Ireland as a republic and the embittered feelings towards British royals, not everyone curtsied. Mariga herself failed to do so, explaining that she was the senior princess, and with her lineage she was, but a friend told her that she was wrong: dispossessed royalty always curtsy. Princess Margaret’s lady-in-waiting appeared flustered and commented that it was a difficult scenario indeed, for the princess did not know who would curtsy and who would not.

Having restored the derelict castle, with Mariga sourcing antique furniture and painting the rooms herself, she and Desmond became interested in saving and restoring Georgian properties. In 1958 they founded the Irish Georgian Society, and Mariga discovered her calling in life. Their first restoration project was The Conolly Folly, an obelisk structure on the Castletown estate in Co. Kildare. Today Mariga is buried beneath it. Another passion project was Castletown House, built for Speaker Conolly by the Italian architect Alessandro Galilei, for which the Guinnesses ‘had to remortgage [their] grandchildren’s fortune’¹⁸ to save. Along with the one-hundred acres of land they bought to prevent two-hundred houses being built on the estate, they organised a band of volunteers who worked alongside them in restoring the house. Mariga herself gave Jacqueline Kennedy a guided tour when the former First Lady visited Ireland in 1967.

With Mariga’s enthusiasm for her adopted country’s heritage, she brought a certain panache to Irish life and, to quote a friend, ‘she positively exported a fresh awareness of Ireland to Europe and America’. The Irish Georgian Society’s list of achievements are too vast to list and deserves its own book for posterity. However, especially in Ireland in those days when the general attitude towards the aristocracy was tinged with sectarianism, Mariga and Desmond worked tirelessly to ensure the palatial buildings had not been left to fall into ruin, and they restored the ones that had. She understood the general feeling of resentment which people held against the old British landlords, but she explained that the buildings, previously occupied by the British nobility, were built by Irish hands and as such belonged to the Irish people.

Credited with appealing to young people and for sparking their interest in architecture, part of the Irish Georgian Society’s success was owed to Mariga’s charm with the public. Or, as friends recalled, how she ‘chatted up’ parliamentary ministers, foreign visitors, rich sponsors, and those who were curious or, rather, suspicious of her. David Norris, in his autobiography, recalled befriending Mariga at the beginning of his interest in Georgian buildings. At a dinner party given by two of Norris’s friends, Mariga appeared late and after banging on the door was shown into the dining room. In her arms she carried what appeared to be wisps of hay, and she explained she had brought some herbs for the cook. Two policemen followed her into the room, looking embarrassed by the spectacle. What had transpired was that Mariga had been motoring along a country road and, driving in her usual harebrained style, she smashed into the side of an unmarked squad car. Then she wound down her window and asked in her low pitched voice, ‘Are you the pirates of Penzance?’¹⁹ As it turned out, they were – they had sung in the Gilbert and Sullivan production at Leixlip Castle the year before. They overlooked her error, and loaded her into the squad car and delivered her to the party.

Although she was rarely offended, Mariga took exception when a guest at Leixlip, who claimed to be a socialist, accused her of being highhanded with the locals. She asked what he was doing in her capitalist house, and why, as a socialist, he did not help her butler to do the washing up. ‘Socialists are always prepared to watch as you slave away; the only people who ever offer to help are the English generals.’ Referring to Mymee’s household and her upbringing, Mariga declared herself ‘a REAL socialist . . . I believe that nobody has the same mind, so we must pool what everyone is good at’.²⁰ Their harshest critics sneered at Mariga and Desmond’s fund raising efforts, and they were dismissed as ‘a consortium of belted earls’.²¹ She was quick to challenge such opinions, and she emphasised that they had approximately five-thousand members, with two-thousand subscribing from America.

For years to come, the couple would fight off developers who planned to demolish Irish architectural and historical splendours. Many were successful, some were not, but Mariga and Desmond never gave up. She fought the demolition of Mountjoy Square in Dublin, and part of her tactic was to live in a house, No. 50, which she bought for £550. The house itself, surrounded by two Georgian properties which had been demolished to ground level, was unsafe and she had it propped up with planks to ensure its stability. The reason such terraces were demolished was due to their perilous structures; one had collapsed on two girls, resulting in their deaths, and another killed an elderly woman. Meeting with a property developer, who had no interest in her vision of restoration, brought out Mariga’s fighting spirit. During an exchange he tried to pat her on the knee to settle her temper, and in retaliation she pulled her skirt away and said, ‘Don’t TOUCH me!’ Although she did not succeed in saving Mountjoy Square, except for No. 50, she was praised for having put up a brave fight and in doing so had done more for Georgian Dublin than any other individual. Today the square has been rebuilt in imitation Georgian architecture.

Aside from campaigning, there had been promotional endeavours to attract interest in the movement. There were excursions with the Irish Georgian Society at home and abroad, to places like India and Moscow, and trips over the border to visit Ulster’s stately homes. They hosted Georgian themed cricket matches, with authentic costumes, played against the Northern Ireland National Trust, and each year until ceasing in 1969 they were held at a different historical property. At one time Mariga sent six-hundred Christmas cards – the number increased over the years – to the members, addressing each as ‘Dear Georgeenian’.

Amid the triumphs of the Irish Georgian Society and two children together, Mariga and Desmond’s marriage had fallen apart. As the 1960s petered out she had met and fallen in love with Hughie O’Neill, whom she called ‘Mr O’Neill’, the future 3rd Baron Rathcavan. And in 1969 she left Desmond and Leixlip, and went to London to set up home with him. They bought a house on Elder Street, in the East End of London, with a spiral staircase leading to the drawing room. The house, which Mariga restored, was decorated relatively cheaply, and curtains were made from Indian bedspreads. She would live in London on and off for years, in between her travels and settling in various places. Later there was a flat on Bolton Street, given to her by her father-in-law, when the affair with Mr O’Neill was over and she had left Elder Street. She began to dress in what she called her ‘knock-about’ clothes (this, she called ‘les apparence extérieures de la pauvreté‘ – ‘the external appearance of poverty’), as a protective measure against being mugged. To her delight she discovered an abandoned railway, and she would walk for miles without interruption, admiring the wildflowers and butterflies. She attended functions in the area, and brought her usual panache wherever she went. At an art exhibition at a nearby gallery a stifling atmosphere prevailed, that is, until she entered and immediately cast her mischievous eye over the rather bad artwork on show. One painting in particular stood out and, as she breezed past, she said in her best regal voice: ‘I wouldn’t give two bits for it.’ Everyone laughed, it was typical Mariga.

As time passed she missed the Irish countryside and the informality of socialising and entertaining. London, with her friends busy lives, had become a lonely place for her. In comparison to Leixlip, she lived in reduced circumstances with her pet parrot, Xerxes. One evening she entertained her young neighbours who noticed the parrot was going mad. As it turned out, she was giving her guests Xerxes’s nuts to eat with their drinks. During a particular gathering, she said one should not speak of ‘folk music’ but say ‘traditional music’, and that one must never use the term ‘gypsy’ but ‘traveller’. ‘We are all travellers in life,’ she remarked. It was a prophetic comment, for the next two decades would mark a transitional period for Mariga. She displayed a restlessness, and she moved around Ireland and went to Norway, where she had inherited log cabins from Mymee. Friends who had visited her in Norway recalled taking a helicopter up to a glacier, where they found Mariga walking around in a long Edwardian dress and parasol, impersonating (or channeling) Mymee circa her suffragette years.

Although she loved buildings more than people, and Leixlip was where she imagined she would grow old, she followed Mr O’Neill to Northern Ireland. His family seat, Cleggan Lodge, was in Broughshane, close to the Antrim coastline. Mariga chose to settle in Glenarm, the next village over, where she stayed at the former courthouse (she sometimes referred to it as The Court House), built in the 1700s, and standing on the corner of Toberwine Street and Castle Street. Relocating to the north appeared to have a steadying effect on Mariga’s spirit, in the early days at least, and with her adaptable nature she soon made herself at home among the villagers. And, despite the fractured politics at the time, she was not put off by ‘the troubles’, and encouraged friends to travel over the border to visit Ulster’s historical homes and landmarks.

At Glenarm the conditions of her new home were grim, and the weather on the edge of the North Atlantic was far more ferocious than that of Kildare, and she recorded how it changed often and the freezing wind whipped through the house. But it was not a house in the conventional sense, for the judicial bench and various legal artifacts remained there. Over the years it had had tenants, such as the owners of the post office who lived upstairs, and it served as a canteen for American troops during WWII. When Mariga moved in, in 1972, it had been in the midst of a renovation and she later installed a fireplace from a Lutyens house in Yorkshire.

Owing to the discomfort at the old courthouse, Mariga went to stay at the Agent’s House, the former home of the Earl of Antrim’s agent, but it was just as spartan. There were no watches, clocks or radios, and so she rarely knew what time it was. She had brought her Arabian stallion with her, a wedding present from Lord Moyne, but its grazing and general hijinks on a nearby glen became disruptive to farmers and its fate was inevitable. Unable to telephone a vet to do the deed, she asked a police officer to shoot the horse. A friend was astonished to see the horse’s leg in a bucket, but Mariga explained she was having its hoof made into an ornament as a memento.

Mr O’Neill was often absent and Mariga remained at the courthouse without him, but her friends came to visit. Parties were ramshackle affairs, thrown in the kitchen, but this was typical of Mariga and her flair for entertaining under any circumstances. One guest was shown to a mattress in what had formerly been a holding cell but was serving as a guest room, and sacks of turf were piled in the hallway, blocking most of the entry. How she accumulated the turf became something of a production, and recruiting the services of her high-born friends, dressed in their finery, she thought it a good idea to cut the turf from a bog near Glenarm. Mariga hoped the first guest at one of her gatherings, whom she was told was ‘athletic’, would help her carry it to the second floor. And, after dinner, she explained to the ladies the location of the lavatory, however she advised the gentlemen to use the garden but ‘kindly, not to pee on the petunias’. She attempted to throw her famous picnics, but the wind at the edge of the cliff caused the insides of the sandwiches to fly out. Still, unperturbed, she asked members of the Ulster Orchestra to provide the music while her friends battled with the food, and the elements. It was her eccentricity, and her kindness, which made the biggest impression on the locals. Wearing her big hats, long skirts, and carrying a basket between the courthouse and the Agent’s House, to eat in one and sleep in the other, she caused a stir. The local youths, who loitered outside the courthouse, attempted to tease Mariga and her guests, but one evening during a party she appeared with a tray of sandwiches and invited them to join in the fun upstairs. This was typical of Mariga and her ability to not only side-step tricky situations, but to form unlikely friendships. She also left the key to her car in the ignition, a sign of her good faith in mankind.

Mariga had lived at Glenarm for around seven years, but eventually her time, and the magic she brought to the tiny village, was coming to an end. The courthouse had been sold by the local council and plans were underway to turn it into a recreational centre for elderly people. She showed an interest in buying it (presumably it was owned by Mr O’Neill, bought from Lord Antrim) but after its renovation the price had been increased and she could not afford it. Writing to friends, she explained that she felt frustrated by the situation. The same could be said about the end of her relationship with Mr O’Neill – after all she had given up, she felt shortchanged. As for the courthouse, Mariga herself thought it would be better suited to giving music recitals. Her friends made plans to campaign for her tenancy to be extended, but it was not to be.

Although her marriage to Desmond was over, Mariga continued to visit Leixlip Castle, making the cross border journey from Glenarm in her battered Citroen Safari. But it was no longer the easy-going atmosphere she had created, and perhaps life had moved on and yet she remained in the past, a place of comfort. Her father had died, and this had a traumatic effect on her and friends thought her much changed after the event. His last words to her were, ‘Tu es . . . enfin tu as‘ (‘You are . . . finally you’).

Before returning to Leixlip she had written of her ramshackle life at Glenarm: the windows were encrusted with lime-dust, sea-blown salt and ordinary dirt; there was no telephone; the inside of the kitchen range had fallen out and she had to do her cooking on the clergyman’s stove. Everything was located within walking distance on the narrow, sloping street. The post office was next door to the courthouse, a pub a few doors away, and around the corner was the barbican gate of Glenarm Castle, home to her friend the Earl of Antrim. There was a woodland with a river running through it, and a marina at the foot of the village, and a walkway to the hills of Antrim with views of the Mull of Kintyre. But it was a lonely life. She had become something of a recluse, or at least without the constant presence of friends, and would walk barefoot to Mrs O’Boyle’s pub in search of company. Her money was also running out, and she complained that the worst part of being poor was that one could not buy books. Speaking of her future at Glenarm, she said: ‘There is no purpose to my being here. Why, is somehow impossible to explain. Friends are at Leixlip and where but there can my children go. It is so impossible to guess what to do next.’²²

Having left Leixlip on her own accord she decided to return, despite a pending divorce between herself and Desmond. Their former marital home was divided, with Mariga attempting to revive her old social life and inviting a small number of friends to visit her. They did, and she appeared to revel in the companionship but her closest admirers noticed a sadness surrounding her and they thought it unfair that she was being forced to surrender so much of what she had built up. If guests were to stay overnight she would ask them to bring their own bed linen, and there was no hot water so she often relied on friends for a bath. When Desmond left for speaking tours to raise money and inspire interest in the Irish Georgian Society, Mariga would break into his wing of the castle. Once, she discovered a gate had been padlocked and she used an ax to break it open. And on another occasion she threw a picnic in the garden and proceeded to climb in and out of the kitchen window to retrieve plates and cutlery. As she had done in the old days, she gave guests impromptu tours of the castle, and during such an evening she opened the door of a historical bedchamber and discovered an unknown couple sleeping in bed. They were Desmond’s guests. Suddenly it struck her that Leixlip was no longer her home and that she ought to leave. ‘Sometimes I feel like a ghost,’ she said.

After her divorce from Desmond in 1981, Mariga was granted a settlement of £150,000. With the money she moved into Tullynisk House, the dower house on the Rosse Estate, at Birr in Co. Offaly. She spent £3000 on improvements, and a further £100,000 buying back the furniture she wanted to bring with her from Leixlip. It was money she could not spare and, with her allowance from her father-in-law having stopped, she would remain short of cash.

Still, with her natural exuberance, she tried to keep up appearances. It was a struggle; her cardigans had holes in the elbows, and she had begun to drink although she did not have the appearance of an alcoholic. According to a friend, she could only manage two glasses of red wine before becoming drunk, so it’s difficult to gauge her alcoholism. She said: ‘I don’t sleep. I get drunk whenever possible . . . I feel it is a very eighteenth-century thing to do.’²³ And at Tullynisk the rooms were warm and inviting, and she made an effort for visiting friends. There were turf fires, electric blankets, antique furniture, books, flowers, and her collection of taxidermy birds and seashells were on show. Costumes, too, were on display; military uniforms, footmen’s liveries, antique dresses, baskets of shoes including her grandmother’s wedding shoes in their original box, feather boas and plumed hats.

For pin money she wrote a weekly column for a provincial magazine, offering nuggets of advice such as the best place to buy knickers in Offaly. Writing came naturally to her, and throughout the years she dabbled with the idea of writing a book on famous picnics, which never materialised, and she started a book on the history of the First World War. She spoke of the challenges within her manuscript, and how she used the word ‘very’ too much. The book remained incomplete which, to admirers of not only Mariga herself but of her historical knowledge, remains a significant loss to the literary canon.

Despite the renovation of Tullynisk, Mariga expressed a bleak outlook for the future. Friends who observed her thought she was withdrawn, as though she was tired and had nothing to say. She had a weak heart and she knew her time was running out. As a young woman she had told a friend that she wanted to die young. ‘When I go,’ she said, ‘it’ll be pretty smartly.’ On the weekend before her death, aged fifty-six, she went on a Friends of the National Collection tour of North Wales. And she appeared enthused by Mostyn Hall, a seventeenth-century house remodelled in a Jacobean style. She was, after all, in her natural habitat.

One great fascination for Mariga was her great-great-aunt, Elisabeth, the Empress of Austria. During their lives, as in death, they were to share interesting parallels. They both died travelling on ferry boats. Sissi stabbed in the heart; Mariga of a heart attack.

A perceptive woman, she must have sensed it was time to bow out. Some have said she was not made for the modern world, that she was far better suited to a Tolstoy creation. ‘She would have been the Queen of Lithuania had the Kaiser won the war,’ remarked an admirer. Her perfect blend of magic and mystery, of pleasure and pathos, and her pilgrim soul has left its mark. And so, it would be appropriate to conclude with her favourite Disraeli saying: ‘Never complain; never explain.’

Source Notes

Invaluable books in writing Mariga’s story have been Mariga and her Friends by Carola Peck, and Women Remember: An Oral History (ed) by Anne Smith.

  1. Smith, Anne (ed) Women Remember: An Oral History (Routledge, London 2013) p. 60

  2. Zemeckis, Leslie, Goddess of Love Incarnate: The Life of Stripteause Lili St. Cyr (Counterpoint, Berkeley 2015)

  3. Cambridge Independent Press, 5 November 1920

  4. Peck, Carola, Mariga and her Friends (The Hannon Press, Meath 1997) p.41

  5. Smith, Anne (ed) Women Remember: An Oral History (Routledge, London 2013) p. 59

  6. Ibid

  7. Ibid

  8. The Independent, 1996

  9. Peck, Carola, Mariga and her Friends (The Hannon Press, Meath 1997) P.41

  10. Ibid

  11. Ibid

  12. Vickers, Hugo, Beaton in the Sixties: More Unexpurgated Diaries (Weidenfeld and Nicolson) p. 98

  13. Peck, Carola, Mariga and her Friends (The Hannon Press, Meath 1997) P.41

  14. Zemeckis, Leslie, Goddess of Love Incarnate: The Life of Stripteause Lili St. Cyr (Counterpoint, Berkeley 2015)

  15. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ay4goACUpBY

  16. Smith, Anne (ed) Women Remember: An Oral History (Routledge, London 2013) p. 60

  17. Peck Carola, Mariga and her Friends (The Hannon Press, Meath 1997) p.61

  18. Illustrated London News, 30 May 1970

  19. Norris, David, A Kick Against The Pricks (Random House, London 2013) p. 133

  20. Peck, Carola, Mariga and her Friends (The Hannon Press, Meath 1997) p. 126

  21. The Illustrated London News, 30 May 1970

  22. Peck, Carola, Mariga and her Friends (The Hannon Press, Meath 1997) p.186

  23. Ibid p.147

The Muse: Diana Mitford and Paul César Helleu

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Diana at Cecil Beaton’s ‘Opposites’ party. The Sketch, 1932

At the age of sixteen, Diana Mitford arrived in Paris under less than glamorous circumstances. Her father, David, had succeeded in selling the family’s home, Asthall Manor, and with the money garnered from its sale, he set about building a new family home, Swinbrook House. The final phase of building was yet to be completed, and the Mitford family, along with their pet gerbils, chose to economise by taking cheap lodgings at the Villa St Honoré d’Eylau. Caught between the world wars, Paris was bustling with excitement. The epitome of the roaring twenties, the jazz age brought rich American tourists and bohemian writers alike to sample the cosmopolitan delights the city had to offer. The reconstruction of the Boulevard Haussmann, damaged by bombs during the First World War, was underway, and Paris was once again a vibrant, metropolitan city not yet plunged into austerity by the Great Depression.

The topic of beauty would govern Diana’s Parisian experience. Whilst in Paris, her mother, Sydney, rekindled her friendship with the celebrated artist, Paul César Helleu who, in the years before her marriage, had immortalised her in a painting. Now this admiration transferred to Sydney’s children. Smitten by her offspring, his painter’s eye appreciated the fine colouring of their blonde hair and blue eyes, with the exception of Nancy, who possessed the dramatic colouring of black hair and green eyes. But it was Diana who charmed Helleu. She, in particular, he likened to a Greek goddess. Advancing in his sixth decade, he was considered an old man, but Helleu’s liberal outlook did not let something as trivial as their vast age difference prevent him from admiring Diana’s looks. ‘Tu es la femme la plus voluptuesse,’ he often praised her. From a cynical point of view it was hardly an appropriate adornment for Diana, who stood at the statuesque height of 5ft 10in, with a slim figure to match.

Caught in the limbo between childhood and adulthood, Diana overlooked Helleu’s compliments, and her attention was absorbed by his drawing room. She thought his collection of Louis XVI furniture, especially the chairs upholstered in white and grey silk, to be aesthetically pleasing. She was curious as to why Helleu hung empty eighteenth-century gilt wooden frames on his walls. His answer was far more peculiar than his action. He advised Diana that if one was not rich enough to possess the pictures one wished for, it was best to have empty frames and use one’s imagination. She was further elated when Helleu drew her into his confidence, telling her that he admired three things above all else: women, racehorses, and sailing boats.

Fearing that her impressionable daughter would fall victim to boredom, the opposite sex, or both, Sydney enrolled Diana in the Cours Fenelon, where she was to study art. After the lessons, Diana walked one-hundred-yards around the corner, to take afternoon tea with Nanny Blor and her siblings at the hotel. This ordinary advancement of walking home alone meant the world to Diana, as it was the first time she had been without a chaperone. This freedom was confined to Paris, as she learned when the family returned to England to spend the Christmas holidays in London.

In the new year of 1927, Diana prepared to return to Paris, this time without her parents and siblings. Travelling alone in those days was strictly forbidden for a young, unmarried girl of her social class. The idea of sending a member of staff, or worse still, paying for a chaperone to accompany Diana, troubled Sydney. Much to her relief, the journey coincided with Winston Churchill’s visit to meet Mussolini and he offered to drop Diana off in Paris on his way to Rome. Accompanying his father, Randolph was thrilled to see Diana again – in love with her during his childhood, he would continue to carry a torch for her long after she had broken his heart by marrying Bryan Guinness, and then Sir Oswald Mosley. But his hope of cutting a dashing figure was thwarted when he fell victim to seasickness, brought on by the rough Channel crossing. ‘Poor little boy!’ Churchill said when Diana told him of Randolph’s plight. Upon reaching the Gare du Nord, Diana spied two elderly sisters with whom Sydney had made boarding arrangements. She summarised her first impressions of the elderly sisters: ‘One of them is horrid and wears a wig, the other is downtrodden and nice’. Pressed for time before catching his connecting train to Rome, Churchill swiftly entrusted Diana into their care and the three left for her new dwellings at 135 Avenue Victor-Hugo.

The elderly sisters’ apartment was not luxurious in any sense of the word, and Diana was alarmed to discover the French taste, which she held in such high esteem, had been lost on her landladies. If the outside was grim, the inside was strictly primitive. She was allocated a bedroom in the basement, its window level with the pavement, with tightly clamped shutters that were to remain closed, should a pedestrian attempt to break in. The room was dark, and as Diana lay in bed she could hear the hustle and bustle of footsteps on the pavement and the revolting chorus of men clearing their throats and spitting. The Dickensian surroundings extended to basic hygiene. She was permitted to bathe twice a week in a miniscule tin tub, brought into her bedroom for the occasion, whereupon a maid filled it with a scalding kettle, counteracted by a jug of cold water. The balance was never quite right and the bath, to Diana’s dismay, was freezing. She wrote a long letter to Sydney, moaning of her discomforts and was sent enough money for an occasional bath at the Villa St Honore d’Eylau. The elderly ladies thought this extravagant and an insult to their hospitality. Owing to Diana’s displeasure with her living arrangements, a frosty relationship ensued.

Despite the discomfort, Diana found the location useful with its close proximity to the Cours Fenelon, her violin lessons near the Lycee Janson, and Helleu’s apartment. She walked to all three places without a chaperone and the freedom was intoxicating. Emboldened by this freedom, she took the first step towards adulthood and cut her waist length hair into a shingled bob – a popular trend in the late 1920s. Her father affirmed to the Edwardian ideal of how women should look, preferring them with long hair and their faces free of make-up. Given this stance, she would have hesitated to cut off her hair had she remained at home. When Nancy first cut her hair, David recoiled in horror, proclaiming that no self-respecting man would want to marry her. Sydney sided with David, and she commented, ‘No one would look at you twice now.’ Having learned of Diana’s rebellion, David teased that her new look was ‘a symbol of decadent immorality’.

It had been almost a month since Helleu last set eyes on Diana, and her short hair, he opined, was ghastly, but it did little to diminish her looks. When she was not taking lessons, Helleu escorted Diana around Le Louvre and the Palace of Versailles, giving her impromptu lessons on paintings, fine art and sculpture. After their day-long excursions, he treated Diana to luncheon where she ordered Sole Dieppoise and Sancerre. Although infatuated by her appearance, his behaviour was always proper. Seizing this moment of high spirits, he asked her to sit for a portrait. There was no question of what her answer would be, for Diana it was the ultimate compliment. ‘I pose for endless pictures,’ Diana confided in a letter to her friend and admirer, James Lees-Milne, and Helleu’s flattering comments, she claimed, ‘never become boring because they are always unexpected.’ Helleu sketched and painted Diana several times, and his most favourable piece was a dry-point etching of her head in profile view. The strong lines detailed her ethereal beauty; an attractive jawline, emphasised by her shingled hair, cut as short as a boy’s at the back with the sides reaching her ears, formed into soft waves. The sketch was reproduced in the popular magazine, L’Illustration, and the prolific recognition turned Diana into a minor celebrity at the Cours Fenelon. The excitement was short-lived and the elderly sisters hastened to plant a dart; ‘Helleu?’ they hissed at the modern-looking girl sitting before them. ‘It is not Helleu to me at all. Frankly I think it is very pre-war.’

Helleu’s flattery was never ending and, blinded by Diana’s beauty, he expected his peers to share his enthusiasm. He brought Diana to visit his friend, the sculptor Troubetzkoy, who at the time was working on a head of Venizelos, the Greek politician. ‘Bonjour, monsieur, la voici la Grèce!’ Helleu jubilantly cried as he pointed to Diana, who stood before the sculptor in her plain clothing and her face devoid of make-up. Venizelos, engrossed in his work, cast a lacklustre eye over Diana, before turning away, barely acknowledging her. She felt a fool and thought her exuberant friend had gone too far. To the sculptor and politician (and many of the grown-ups around her) she was merely going through what the French called ‘l’âge ingrat’ – the awkward age.

Sensing that her husband’s young friend was pining for familiar home comforts, Madame Helleu provided Diana with an inviting atmosphere away from the Avenue Victor-Hugo. After lessons, she would drop in for tea and often stayed to supper, indulging in Madame Helleu’s heavenly cuisine of roast veal, boeuf en gelee, iles flottantes and rich black chocolate cake. Helleu loved to see Diana eat and he would happily exclaim: ‘Mais prenez, prenez donc!’ The Helleus’ daughter, Paulette, although several years older than Diana, became a critical friend. Paulette found fault with Diana’s clumsy home-made clothing and her lack of make-up, still strictly forbidden. She might have attacked Diana’s weak spots, but she could not deny her beauty, and that sparked an unspoken rivalry between the artist’s daughter and his adolescent muse.

Although flattered by Helleu’s treatment, Diana was becoming accustomed to receiving compliments on her beauty rather than her brains. In a letter to James Lees-Milne, she asked him ‘not to feel jealous’ about her flirting with French boys. Having gained his confidence, she confessed that she only confided in him because he was ‘so far from England’s green and pleasant land, where scandal travels fast’. During this time she had become an expert in deceiving the elderly ladies, and although she was permitted to venture out without a chaperone during the daytime, she was forbidden to do so in the evenings. She cared little for their rules and she feigned invitations to sit for Helleu, or cited extra music lessons with her violin instructor. Once out of their supervision, Diana met the young man in question. She juggled several suitors, always escaping with them to the darkness of the cinema, then the height of sophistication for a teenager. She spoke confidently of a trip in a taxi around the Bois de Boulogne with a boy named Charlie (Charles de Breuil), a fairly rich count, extraordinarily handsome, but very vain. Before Diana had encountered Charlie, she enjoyed a flirtation with a young suitor named Bill Astor, heir to Viscount Astor and his immense fortune. Diana said little of her experiences with Bill, except that she had only flirted with Charlie because French flirting interested her and because it made her think of Bill. At a loss for words, Jim praised her mental fidelity towards the unsuspecting admirer.

Diana dutifully penned chatty letters to her mother, but Sydney was too preoccupied with the preparations for Nancy and Pamela’s parties – they had already come out as débutantes but had failed to become engaged – to give much thought to her younger daughter’s daily life. A dull round of lessons, she imagined. Only Diana and her diary knew the truth. Neither Sydney nor David relished the idea of entertaining and they made a dreary saga of the details, writing to Diana, ‘The dance is turning into an immense bore …’ Sydney sent her a parcel containing a pair of ‘evening knickers’ and a dark blue silk dress with white polka dots. Diana was delighted with the underwear, a sophisticated treat having only just shed the fleece-lined liberty bodice her nanny forced the children to wear. The euphoria dimmed when she tried on the silk dress, only to discover it was too big. The whirlwind of Diana’s social life did not interfere with her schooling and her end of term report, that March, spoke glowingly of her ‘parfait’ conduct, describing her as ‘excellente élève dont nous garderons le meilleur souvenir.’

The glittering atmosphere was not to last. At the end of March, Helleu fell gravely ill and his unexpected death from peritonitis was a bitter blow to Diana’s self-esteem. The man she worshipped and who, for three months, had worshipped her, was dead. ‘I shall never see him again …’ her letter to James Lees-Milne ached with melancholy ‘… never hear his voice saying, “Sweetheart, comme tu es belle”’. Shortly before Helleu’s death, Diana had called at his flat, hoping to visit her ailing friend. Paulette answered the door. ‘May I see him?’ she desperately asked. ‘Of course not.’ Paulette brusquely turned her away. His death was to have a lasting effect on her. ‘Nobody will admire me again as he did,’ she said at the time.

Mrs Guinness: The Rise and Fall of Diana Mitford is published by The History Press. The above was originally published in The Mitford Society: Vol. IV

Only The Sister: Angela du Maurier

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Originally published in The Mitford Society: Vol. IV

When one thinks of groups of sisters throughout history, it is often their social lives that come under scrutiny, and then their literary output. It is as though they were half expected to write a novel or a volume of memoirs to compensate for their celebrity status, whether they were talented or not. Fortunately it was the former with the du Mauriers, and both Angela and Daphne (though to a larger extent) would write books. As with Nancy Mitford’s novels, predominantly The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, the du Mauriers books were largely inspired by not only their childhood and events in their lives, but of the landscape in which they lived and had visited.

Like the Mitfords, Angela (1904), Daphne (1907), and Jeanne (1911) had an unusual childhood not in the depths of the countryside but largely spent at Cannon Hall, in Hampstead, where fascinating guests filled the home, and their father Gerald dominated the girls, for better or worse. Except for a few terms at Miss Tulloch’s school, their education was confined to a governess as Gerald did not wish for his daughters to be exposed to the wicked world. The Mitfords would also be kept at home, but for different reasons: their father did not want them to develop thick calves from playing hockey. However, unlike the Mitfords, the du Maurier girls were exposed to the arts on the domestic front and there was nothing unseemly about a trip to the theatre, or harbouring an ambition to go on the stage. Whereas Farve went up to London once a year to see a play, taking his daughters with him, and often critiquing it on the journey home – ‘That foolish boy, Romeo…. and that damned nurse, bloody bitch. She was probably an RC!’ Gerald du Maurier was an actor-theatre manager, and he also had a brand of cigarettes named after himself. Their aunt Sylvia Llewelyn Davies was the mother of the five boys who inspired J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, and this fed the girls’ imagination. They identified themselves as a tribe, in the vein of Barrie’s Lost Boys, and Daphne and Jeanne thought of themselves as boys, whereas Angela was happy to be a girl, even if she did think herself unattractive. And, as with the Mitfords, theirs was a feral upbringing of secret societies, schoolroom antics and silly nicknames. Angela, the eldest, was Piffy; Daphne, the middle girl, was Bing; and Jeanne, the youngest was Bird. Their mother, Muriel, was a vague presence in their lives; a former actress, she was beautiful and aloof, and did not pander to her children except when critiquing them. The same was true for the Mitfords, as their mother, as well as their beloved nanny, often told the six beauties that nobody was looking at them (especially Diana, the most beautiful). Muriel was often exasperated by her daughters’ appearance, especially Angela’s heavy build and lack of fashion sense – she was once mistaken for the nanny when she accompanied her sisters to a birthday party.

Angela’s innocence lasted all of her life, and she believed in the mythical figure of Father Christmas long into adolescence. Unlike the Mitfords who were quite cynical as children and when they were taken to see Peter Pan they would yell ‘No!’ when the cast called out, ‘Do you believe in fairies?’ Angela herself did believe in fairies and, after a well-meaning servant placed ‘fairy circles’ in the garden to enchant the children, it was her younger sister Daphne who discredited the stunt and said there was no such thing. Angela however dissolved into tears and accused her of speaking ill of the fairies. She was the only one out of her sisters who believed in the afterlife and often spoke of being reunited with spirits on a supernatural realm. Daphne, as imaginative as she was, scoffed at her ideas. Despite her inability to keep up with the quick wit of her family, her childhood home represented security and a barrier against growing up. Something the Mitfords could not relate to, for each girl, with the exception of Pamela and Debo, was aching to break free. ‘The finish of security. Doubt lies ahead. Adieu les jours heureux,’ Angela wrote in her diary. In a way, she would always retain a childlike enthusiasm, and throughout her life, as in the nursery, she was seldom without an idol to worship.

The ‘business of growing older’, as she referred to it, represented more than double figures to Angela, and she was apprehensive about swapping her childhood clothes for a grown-up trousseau; ‘one was a fish out of water, too young to listen to sophisticated conversation, at the same time not wishing to play cricket on the lawn with younger sisters and their friends’. She was sent to finishing school in Paris but she was stifled by homesickness and it was to be a miserable experience. Like Pamela Mitford, Angela was the scapegoat for her sisters teasing and the other girls’ antics, and she had no ambition to be a bright star on the horizon. Her spirits were momentarily lifted when her parents and sisters arrived to take her on holiday to the south of France and then on to Algiers. Daphne thought it a great adventure and was spellbound by the architecture, Jeanne was too young to appreciate it, and Angela, having read The Garden of Allah, was determined to fall in love. The object of her affection was Roland Pertwee, a married man whose wife had left him, and he took up with Angela and Daphne, acting as a tour guide and chaperone. But Angela’s idea of a chaste romance fizzled out when Pertwee decided she was an unsophisticated schoolgirl and, after accompanying her to Paris, he dropped her at her finishing school and vanished.

When Angela returned home she became interested in politics, having met Peter Macdonald, an MP for the Isle of Wight, and she became a Young Conservative. Throwing herself into the political campaign, she travelled to darkest Southwark but was appalled at the poverty she was subjected to, and she began to question her Tory ideals. Many doors were slammed in her face. A man shouted that he ‘voted for Labour and always would’, Angela’s only response was to sigh and say, ‘Yes, so should I.’ Thereupon, she became a converted socialist and argued with Macdonald, with whom she thought she was in love despite the fact he was married. She proposed a deal to him: if the Tories won all would be well with them, and if Labour won they would go their separate ways. This was reminiscent of Unity and Decca Mitford, albeit through a sisterly bond, they agreed to disagree when it came to politics, but each one agreed to shoot the other if they had to for the sake of their ideological cause. To Angela’s dismay Labour won the 1929 General Election and Macdonald was no longer the focus of her thoughts, but it marked a watershed in her romantic life. Around this period she began to branch out from her family, as painful as it was, and to visit friends at their country houses. On such a visit to Lady Cynthia Asquith’s home, where a group of young people were staying, Angela, who was aged nineteen, was kissed by Lord Dunglass. It had taken place in her bedroom, and she was convinced she would become pregnant. Harbouring this secret, she wrote to her aunt who reassured her that she could not.

Although she held a romantic ideal of love and dreamt of having children, she was appalled by sex – this was prompted by an acquaintance telling her about reproduction and she felt sickened by the biological facts at play. ‘My father would never do such a thing,’ she said. Then, when she absorbed the information told to her, she felt ‘betrayed’ by her parents ‘because the truth was so HORRIBLE that they couldn’t bear to tell it to me’. When her mother found out she ‘harangued’ her for having learned the truth and said she could never trust her daughter again. Adding to this wretchedness, when she was twelve-years-old and walking in the woods, a German soldier whom she saw was wounded and went to help him had exposed himself to her. After this, she felt confused and distressed, and ashamed of what had happened but she knew she must keep it a secret. By her own admission it had stunted her social development.

Furthermore, Gerald had always confided his infidelities to Angela and Daphne, telling them of the young actresses whom he was stringing along, and he invited them to mock the women’s naivety, thus dividing their loyalties to their mother who knew nothing of these chats. This added to Angela’s mistrust of men, and the view that all men, once they had caught a young woman, would move on to someone else. Yet, despite their talk of his affairs, and the girls’ referring to the young women as ‘the stable’ (as in fillies vying to win a race), Gerald was pathologically jealous of his daughters’ coming into contact with young men, especially Angela who was not as loyal to him as Daphne. She recalled him watching from an upstairs window as she returned from a party, and cross examining her whenever she walked through the door. He wanted to know if anyone had kissed her, or had made a pass, or indeed if she found a young man attractive. And he warned that she would ‘lose her bloom’ if she had done so, for a man’s attention would somehow tarnish her looks and everyone would know she had been corrupted. Soon after her coming out in society, he began to call her a whore, and when she complained of pains in her stomach he accused her of being pregnant – it turned out to be appendicitis. The Mitfords father, too, could be frightening when his daughters sought love matches with men he disapproved of, and during their youth he was forever calling their male friends ‘sewers’ and threatening to horsewhip them but he did not cross the threshold of causing psychological harm.

As a debutante she attended dances in London and found a friend in a young Cecil Beaton who, despite his waspish nature, was charmed by her wholesomeness. It was the Jazz Age, and the young ladies of her generation were dressed in the height of 1920s fashion, but Angela was to suffer in the stays from her childhood corsets and flouncy dresses. She failed to become engaged, or to even find a suitor, but she developed a crush on Gwen Farrar, an actress on the West End stage who was notorious for her lesbian pursuits. Her parents, regardless of their theatrical backgrounds, did not approve of the friendship with Gwen, and they put a stop to it. Angela was heartbroken, and in many ways she shared a childish vision of romance with Nancy Mitford, her contemporary. Nancy herself pined for an unsuitable man who was not only gay but treated her badly, and yet she loved him and thought they would marry. This innocence has been attributed to the sheltered upbringing of girls of their generation. Daphne, although younger, believed life as well as love was ‘no fun unless there’s a spark of danger in it’. I think Diana and Decca Mitford certainly agreed with her sentiment.

In an attempt to distract Angela from the business of politics and her ‘unsuitable’ friendship with Gwen Farrar, Gerald suggested she play Wendy Darling in the annual Christmas and New Year performance of Peter Pan at the Adelphi theatre. Nancy would also experience a helping hand on the career ladder when she was given a job at her grandfather’s magazine, The Lady. Angela was undaunted by the task ahead, and although she was an untrained actress the play was so familiar to her that she was word perfect. Gladys Cooper was cast as Peter, and the social world of the theatre appeared to be the tonic she needed. There were rehearsals every day, and parties every night, and Angela was once again in love, this time with Ian Hunter who had been cast as Mr Darling. But the director’s vision of the play did not match Angela’s childhood memories of the story and she clashed with him. After weeks of preparation, she felt nervous and uncertain of herself in the part, and her lisp was intensified and she spoke quickly and forgot her lines. The nepotism on Gerald’s behalf in casting his daughter ahead of classical actresses proved disastrous when, on opening night, she struggled with her wire and flew into the orchestra pit. She was battered and bruised, and embarrassed by the spectacle but, regardless of her personal feelings, she carried on with the show. Although she would never make it as an actress, Angela had somewhat fallen prey to theatrical types and she was conned by a photographer in to posing nude. She was ashamed and upset by the results of her modelling.

As was her wont, Angela retreated back to the family home and into her childhood world. At the age of almost thirty she appeared content to stay at home and write in her diary, and she lived off her yearly allowance of £150. It was the era of the celebrity debutante and her fellow debs, who were now young wives and prominent London hostesses, were serving as muses for painters and photographers alike. Nancy Mitford, too, had succumbed to the alter and married an entirely unsuitable man, but at least she had finally married. Angela had no such luck, or interest. But she played the part of a jolly upper-class girl and Cecil Beaton asked Angela and Daphne to sit for him, and he photographed their blonde heads peering out from behind wineglasses. The surreal composition, though artificial to the untrained and perhaps modern eye, was thought of by Angela as the most flattering portrait ever taken of her.

It would be wrong to portray Angela as a loner, for she had a collection of close female friends whose company she sought. There was a ‘romantic adventure’ with her best friend, Angela Shaw, and her Pekinese, Wendy. They motored in Angela’s MG Midget on their way to the west coast of Scotland and the Isles of Mull and Skye, but this was cut short by a collision in Yorkshire. The car, hurled into a ditch, was so badly damaged it was possible the women and dog survived because of its open top and they were thrown clear. Angela suffered a head injury and was badly concussed, and the rescuers at first thought she was dead. Her first words, when she came to, was to ask about Wendy. Shaw, though conscious, and in agony from a smashed collarbone, resented Angela’s concern for the dog. They were taken to Ripon Cottage Hospital, where they convalesced in a children’s ward, and Wendy was placed in a cot by Angela’s bed. Shaw, high on morphine, cried out that she was at the ‘end of her tether’.

Perhaps a bitter blow to Angela’s confidence was the progression of Daphne. Like Nancy Mitford, her younger sister Diana had triumphed in many areas where she herself had not. Angela was not a natural writer, but she showed a creative flare, and she wrote her first novel A Little Less, which was rejected by publishers. Around this time, Daphne’s debut novel, The Loving Spirit, was published and her great literary career began. With the publication of Daphne’s fourth novel, Jamaica Inn, Angela’s second attempt at fiction, The Perplexed Heart, was accepted by publishers hoping to cash in on the du Maurier name. Eventually her first attempt was published a decade after it was written and it provoked parental outrage when they discovered its theme of a young woman’s love for another. How could sheltered Angela have known of such things? her parents wondered. The publishers’ rejection letters matched the sentiments of the du Mauriers: the lesbian theme was ‘too unpleasant’. And on the romance front Daphne had excelled where Angela did not. She married Sir Frederick Arthur Montague Browning, known as Tommy, and would have three children. Likewise Jeanne became a talented painter, and as with Angela, she did not marry but lived for the rest of her life with a woman. Pamela Mitford would do the same, leading to speculation as to the nature of the relationship with such companions. As with Pamela and her volatile marriage to Derek Jackson, an alpha male, Angela and Jeanne’s difficult dynamic with their father had disillusioned them towards the male sex. Angela’s case was far more complex, she was neither of her parents’ favourite – Daphne was her father’s golden child, and Jeanne, the easy-going baby of the family, was her mother’s pet – and so she was constantly searching for affection and a place to belong.

As she grew older, Angela’s debilitating homesickness left her and she travelled around continental Europe, staying in luxurious hotels. It has also been said that Gerald’s death in 1934, although a great loss for Daphne, had liberated Angela from his put-downs and teasing. She would live with her mother until Muriel’s death in 1957, and be a constant presence in Daphne’s life. The sisters, including Jeanne, might not have been as candid with one another, as say the Mitfords, but they were prolific letter writers. In her later years her common sense and strength of character made Angela the sister they could all rely on. She would outlive both Daphne and Jeanne, dying at the age of ninety-eight in 2002. The landscape of the places she visited, most especially western Ireland, had become embedded in her imagination and in her work. She continued to write, whether her novels were well received or not, and in her lifetime she published eleven works of fiction and two autobiographies. Friends warned her to censor her life, thinking she was (surprisingly) too advanced for the modern reader. She heeded their warning, and censor it she did though it was far from dull. Having plucked up the courage to live the life she dreamed of in the nursery, Angela would never entirely shed the insecurities of her youth, but she bravely took the reigns of her destiny. Her best-known book, an autobiography, was inspired by those who diminished her work in favour of Daphne’s. Its title, Only the Sister, verifies just that. But she was so much more…

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Available on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

The Mitford Society: Vol IV

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Hello Mitties! It’s that time of year again, the launch of a new Mitford annual. As always, it features the infamous Mitford Tease (Friends and Frenemies) as well as a host of features on the Mitfords and their set. I have included the table of contents below. Next year I will be making a start on Vol. V a lot sooner as it will be a celebration to mark Decca’s 100th birthday! So, there is no time like the present. If you would like to be included in Vol. 5, or have an idea, please don’t hesitate to get in touch! You can purchase the annual on both Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

Table of Contents

 Friends and Frenemies: A Mitford Tease

The Muse: Diana Mitford and Helleu

A Very Mitford Reading

Lucia Joyce: The Pioneering Modern Dancer That Almost Was

Pam and Betje: An Enduring Friendship

Beaten by Beaton: Doris Delevingne and her Love Affair with Cecil Beaton

The Company She Kept: Unity Mitford and her Friends

Too Naked for the Nazis: How Betty Knox Went From Chorus Line to Front Line

Lady Bridget Parsons: The Pursuit of Love by

Literary Ladies: The Fictional Worlds of Nancy Mitford, Elizabeth Jane Howard and Lucia Berlin

The Big Tease: How Olivia de Havilland Fell for Nancy Mitford

In The Footsteps of the Mitfords

Debo and Cake:  A Royal Friendship

Lady Irene Curzon: A Dim View of Diana

Private Enemy Number One

Camelot in the Derbyshire Dales

The President and The Duchess

Only the Sister: Angela du Maurier

Nancy Mitford and Harold Acton: A Life-long Friendship

A Fly in the Ointment: A Mitford Tease

Words by Lyndsy Spence & Meems Ellenberg

(Originally published in The Mitford Society: Vol III)

The echoing footsteps of Mabel along the long, narrow hallway of Rutland Gate caught Farve’s attention. The sound of his Puccini aria spinning on the gramophone did nothing to dispel an impending sense of doom. As he watered his window box of fascinators – the seedlings he had scattered the year before – he made a mental note to check on Mr Dyer tending to the boiler in the basement. Being a fellow who was susceptible to the supernatural he pondered if Dyer, who lived a subterranean existence below the seven floors, was dead. It was a distinct possibility. Before leaving the library he locked his cold cup of coffee in the safe, lest some money’s orphan should remove his suckments.
Farve passed Mabel, who held in her hand a lilac-coloured envelope. ‘So gauche, so noveau-riche,’ Muv had groaned when these bizarre envelopes had first started to appear on the tray of post. They were always addressed to Miss Nancy. ‘What a stench!’ Muv had choked, reacting to the overwhelming scent of tuberose. She knew with certainty, as she knew most things from her days on the high seas, that tuberose was responsible for many a debaucherous deed. ‘Another one?’ Farve approached Mabel, he was looking especially exotic in his paisley print dressing gown, sipping tea from a thermos and puffing on a gasper. He took the letter and examined it. A scattering of letters rudely cut from a magazine were glued to the lilac page. ‘You are a charlaten and I hate you,’ it read, though charlatan was spelled incorrectly. Having read only one book in his life, Farve failed to notice. ‘I am a Mitford and I despise you,’ the venom dripped off the page, or was it runny glue? ‘You are ALL I despise,’ it added once more in case the message wasn’t clear.
‘Who do you suppose it is?’ Mabel asked. ‘Not Jicksy, I should hope.’

Entering the drawing room, Farve asked the girls to gather around the fire. It was serious, Debo concluded, for they were allowed to abandon the jars of dripping jam on the sideboard and crumbs remained on the good table cloth.
‘Such a bother,’ Muv bemoaned. ‘I should sooner send the table cloth up to Edinburgh than have beastly Harrods charge me a king’s ransom.’
No one remarked save Mabel, who may have been heard to mutter, ‘Penny pinching peeress.’
Nancy, taking a break from her preparing an article for The Lady magazine, slithered into the room. ‘I say,’ she rubbed the ink stains on her hands, ‘I wish Snell would up my pay. This cheap ink is too too sick-making.’

Nobody spoke, presumably nobody cared. Nancy’s constant complaints were what were too, too sick making, thought Decca, although her pique may have been due to another all-nighter reading Dorothy L. Sayers. So much bickering ensued about who said what to the Londoner’s Log about Diana’s impending nuptials to Bryan Guinness, Pam’s broken engagements and Nancy’s fledgling literary career, that Farve had to bellow for silence. But, having to have the last word, Unity sneezed. ‘Hatschie, Geräusch beim Niesen,’ she said.
Delphine Ale-Stout, the letter was signed. Nancy and Diana wracked their brains but failed to place the name. ‘Watney’s Red Barrel,’ Pam piped up and everybody laughed. She liked three-worded names: Purple-Sprouting-Broccoli, in particular.
‘Perhaps we met her on the cultural cruise?’ Debo suggested.
Unity and Decca wondered if Delphine Ale-Stout was a white slaver. ‘It certainly sounds a white slaver name,’ Decca mused.
‘Sie sicherlich,’ Unity agreed, something she seldom did.
‘In English!’ Muv exploded in a rare bout of bad temper. ‘In English,’ she said once more, repeating that, along with the King’s English, she supported the Church of England, voted Conservative and believed in the afterlife – ‘I should like to see Cecily,’ she mused. ‘And Uncle Clem.’ She spoke of the afterlife as though it were a meeting of the hounds, and certainly very English.
Ever since Nancy had started working for The Lady, Delphine Ale-Stout began to send her poison-pen letters. It all began rather incoherently, a jumble of letters and initials. ‘HstCE,’ one said in reference to that flippant tart Hamish St. Clair Erskine. ‘NFM,’ Nancy Freeman-Mitford retaliated. Though, as Blor pointed out, it could very well mean something else. ‘Errr,’ she scolded, ‘no one will want to be your friend if that’s how you talk.’ retaliated. Though, as Blor pointed out, it could very well mean something else. ‘Errr,’ she scolded, ‘no one will want to be your friend if that’s how you talk.’
Then the letters spiralled out of control. Threatening words slipped through, warning that Delphine and her followers would kill her. Nancy vaguely remembered that one had the name of a colonial drink. ‘It puts heaven in a rage,’ Diana sighed.

Nancy was most vexed. Delphine Ale-Stout, a puzzle. Delphine Ale-Stout, a cipher. Delphine Ale-Stout, a rival writer. Delphine Ale-Stout, only a name in a sea of articles, never a fot. Delphine Ale-Stout: perhaps she did not have a photography face? Pathos personified. ‘She eeees,’ Nancy murmured.

‘Oh blissipots!’ Debo bubbled. Nancy’s problems had been nothing to her as she had been invited by Uncle Matthew and Aunt Sadie to go shooting. Cousin Clementine wrote to say that Diana was welcome at Chartwell. Uncle Wolf wired an invitation to Fraulein Unity, but Muv said nein to ‘going abroad with a stranger’. Decca, darling little D, was already packing for a weekend with the Paget twins. And, Pam, where was Pam? Surely she couldn’t…Nancy snatched the letter. ‘Charlaten,’ her triangular green eyes honed in on the misspelling. Hmmm, poor Pam, she thought, always the thesaurus, never the dictionary.
‘Here I am,’ Pam breezed into the room in slow motion, her presence was as long and lingering as her vowels. ‘I was just across town selling eggs to the Bed of Nails. Say!’ she whipped two newspapers out of her basket, ‘your tiff with Delphine Ale-Stout has made the front pages. Looook!’
It was too sensational, too good to be true. ‘Disney with knobs on!’ Nancy squealed.
Blor, thinking a horrible accident had occurred, rushed into the drawing room. ‘So sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I thought Miss Decca was on the roof again.’
‘Look, Naunce,’ Pam scanned the article. ‘It says here that Delphine Ale-Stout has many occupations. She’s a philanthropist. Haberdasher. And sometime chanteuse.’
‘So non-U,’ Nancy remarked.
Blor sniffed meaningfully.

The crossing to Dieppe was choppy. Decca opened her picnic hamper and noted Muv had packed a whole meal loaf and Pam had boiled up a dozen new potatoes – a fitting luncheon for a farmer in a brown suit. The Paget twins agreed to meet her at the port, and together they would enjoy a motoring holiday around the Channel coast.
In the car, the twins rapidly spoke about a tour of Austria, and Decca listened intently to their itinerary. They would be staying with an elderly aunt, they said. ‘A good alibi if one wanted to forge a naughty letter,’ they added.
‘I couldn’t run away,’ Decca’s eyes widened at the thought. ‘I haven’t lodged my Christmas money for one thing. Besides, Cousin Winston would send a tanker to find me.’
‘The mountains,’ advised the Paget twins. ‘No water to sail a tanker on in the mountains.’
They were brick girls, those Paget twins.

The following week another letter arrived for Nancy from Delphine Ale-Stout. This time she slipped up and included Lady as a prefix. Muv retrieved her well-thumbed copy of the Peerage and scanned through the double-barrel names and the list of those tradesmen who had risen a rank or two. ‘Really,’ she was aghast; ‘the peerage resembles a shopping-list these days.’ There was no Delphine Ale-Stout, no Ale, no Stout…
Farve agreed, commenting that the peerage’s pandering to household brands was lower than the belly of a snake. ‘What next?’ he harrumphed. ‘Women in the House of Lords?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Pam looked up from polishing the silver. ‘After all, you worked for a lady’s magazine.’ He scowled in reply and reminded himself that Pam’s turn in Rat Week was long overdue.
‘Settle down,’ Muv scolded. ‘After luncheon I shall read Tess of the d’Urbervilles aloud. Or would you prefer White Fang?’
They returned to the sick-making business of Delphine Ale-Stout. She had written a strongly worded, though incoherent, letter to rogue newspapers that dared to paint her as a villain. ‘I committed no crime,’ one of the more intelligible sentences read. She accused the newspapers of rewriting history and claimed that nobody would have heard of Miss Nancy Freeman-Mitford had she not put her on the radar.
Nancy shrieked whether in joy or consternation, was unclear.
Farve’s mind scrambled to his latest list of suspects. The Wid was swiftly added to it and, recalling the sight of a discarded handkerchief in a hedge, he also included the Duchess of Marlborough. He also remembered that sewer with the comb in his breast-pocket. The list was growing.
But there was a twist at the end of this letter. Delphine Ale-Stout demanded a sum of money.
‘Blackmail is such an unfortunate word,’ said Muv.
Nancy could bear the riddle no longer. Delphine Ale-Stout demanded £50. She was explicit in her instructions. £50 in a lilac envelope (enclosed) should be left under an empty milk bottle at the Army and Navy stores on Victoria Street.
‘The Army and Navy stores on Victoria Street?’ repeated Farve. ‘I shall escort you.’

Nancy and Pamela went along with Farve to the Army and Navy stores on Victoria Street. As Pam had errands to run on behalf of Muv, she left Nancy in a Lyon’s teashop and told her to pay attention to the comings and goings at the stores. The morning rush was too divine and Nancy whipped out her pen and notepaper and began taking notes on the conversations on mantelpieces and settees ringing in her ears. She thought of constructing an article for The Lady, or perhaps a future book. Farve contented himself with reviewing the new shipment of entrenching tools.

Meanwhile in Dieppe, Decca had bumped into old Aunt Natty, otherwise known as Blanche Hozier, Farve’s aunt. She was in high spirits, having come into an unexpected windfall of money. ‘You must come to the casino,’ she told Decca and the Paget twins. They agreed, whereupon they were introduced to Natty’s admirer, the local and much-married fishmonger.
‘How lucky to see you,’ Natty said as she rolled the dice. ‘We’ve just returned from our little benjo.’ Pulling pound notes out of her handbag she ordered the fishmonger to place more bets.
‘Where did you get all that money?’ Decca enquired. The Paget twins were competing against one another at the billiards table.
‘I pawned my Kodak,’ said Natty.
‘There must be fifty pounds in there, Decca began to count the pound notes.
‘Don’t count, darling,’ Natty snatched the money. ‘Arithmetic is so unseemly for girls.’

‘Oh look,’ Muv drawled. ‘Decca’s written to say she bumped into Aunt Natty in Dieppe. ‘She said Natty treated her and the Paget twins to a honnish evening in the casino where they went back to her house and gambled fifty pounds playing Snakes and Ladders.’
‘Who won?’ asked Nancy.
‘Oh,’ Muv rolled her eyes. ‘She did not say.’
‘Fifty pounds!’ exclaimed Pam.
‘Such a waste of money. Of course one can’t help it if one’s rich but….’
‘Don’t you see!’ interrupted Pam. ‘Don’t you get it? Delphine Ale-Stout wanted fifty pounds. Naunce, you were at the teashop, tell them what you saw…’
‘Well I…’ Nancy thought for a moment. She decided to embellish the truth. ‘I saw a very tall lady, very well-dressed with a Scottish terrier. She wore a cape over her nightgown, much to my everlasting embarrassment, you must understand.’
‘Yes, and?’ they shouted at once.
‘Well that’s all I saw,’ she shrugged. ‘So sorry.’
‘Natty,’ bellowed Farve.
‘Natty,’ whispered Muv.
‘Telephone Cousin Winston,’ he ordered his wife. ‘We must send a tanker at once!’

Later that evening, Decca was back at Rutland Gate. The Paget twins caught a lift on the tanker and stopped off at Peter Jones to spend their Snakes and Ladders winnings. ‘Five hours was all it took,’ she chirped. Muv was most impressed at the efficiency. Pam said Dieppe was so close it was just like home. Nancy scoffed and said Paris was the place to be. Within the hour, Debo returned, covered in pheasant feathers and pigeons blood and weeping about a gruesome tale called The Little Houseless Match. Unity was upstairs, or so it was assumed by the goose-stepping thuds coming through the ceiling and the repeated playing of ‘Horst Wessel Leid’ on the gramophone.
‘So tell me everything, from the start,’ Muv ordered.
Decca said that Aunt Natty was her charming self and, after suggesting they go back to her house with the fishmonger, and having been hosed down at the front door, they all sat down to a thrilling game of Snakes and Ladders.
‘Not Racing Demon?’ Debo asked.
‘No,’ Decca stated. ‘Oh, before I forget,’ she reached into her pocket. ‘Natty said to give you this.’
Narrowing her green eyes to slits, Nancy accepted the odoriferous lilac coloured envelope. ‘Dare I open it?’ She looked at Muv and Farve. Before awaiting their answer she tore into the envelope and realised there was fifty pounds inside.
‘She is a good woman,’ Muv said.
‘Such a clever cove,’ Farve agreed.
Like rich people, Muv told the children, some people could not help being naughty. Diana and Decca readily agreed and nodded in unison.
‘Well, let’s say we forget the whole ghastly business of Delphine Ale-Stout,’ Nancy tossed the letter onto the fire.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Decca jumped to her feet. ‘Natty isn’t Delphine Ale-Stout. She simply had no note-paper and the Paget twins came to the rescue.’ With great difficulty she retrieved the half-singed letter from the fire. ‘Money for an old war debt, love Natty,’ she read aloud.
Blor sniffed. ‘The Paget twins, eh?’
Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and Mabel entered, bearing another letter from Delphine Ale-Stout. It was an odd letter, quite rambling in its tone. ‘Dearest Nancy Freeman-Mitford. I don’t know who you are. I have never heard of you. I was impersonated by an old governess wishing to seek revenge and destroy my reputation. Please don’t write back. I have blacklisted you.’
Nancy did not throw the letter onto the fire or tear it up. She added it to her pile of correspondence. ‘One day I shall publish a book of letters, you’ll see,’ she told her disbelieving family.
They all laughed and forgot about the non-U escapade that was Miss Delphine Ale-Stout.
‘One last thing,’ Muv interrupted the jovial scene. ‘What else did Natty say?’
‘Oh,’ Decca beamed, ‘she promised to introduce me to her grandson, Esmond Romilly.’
There were floods. Absolute floods.

(Apologies for WordPress’s lack of formatting. It is too, too sickmaking!)

 

Something Higher Than A Friend

Extracted from The Mitford Society: Vol. III

Diana was 14-years-old when she first met James Lees-Milne, known to his friends as ‘Jim’. He had come down to Asthall Manor, the family home in Oxfordshire that was said to be haunted by a poltergeist, with Tom Mitford in the summer of 1924.

Both Diana and Jim were intrigued by one another, and he was bewitched by her beauty as he silently observed her sitting next to Tom as he played the piano. Diana, too, thought Jim the cleverest person she had met. She was impressed by his loathing of games and his preference for sitting indoors, listening to classical music and conversing about art and literature. Tom appeared to share an easy-going, brotherly type of affection with Jim, but their schoolboy camaraderie concealed a discreet affair that had taken place at Eton. The close bond between Diana and Tom reminded Jim of his loneliness and lack of familial ties – he despised his father, saw little of his mother, and had nothing in common with his siblings. Adding to his misery, all through his childhood and early adolescent years, Jim wished he were a girl. Society’s expectations placed on Jim as a boy, and his countrified father’s disapproval, conspired to make him ‘feel desperately ashamed’ of his wish. Adding to Jim’s feelings of shame was the guilt of his affair with Tom, and he desired to replace him with Diana, a socially acceptable catalyst for romance.

After Jim departed Asthall, he immediately wrote Diana a letter, asking her: ‘May I treat you as a much cherished sister to whom I can say everything? You don’t realise how essential they are to boys. Why are you so amazingly sympathique as well as charming?’ Diana, who was surrounded by six sisters and an all-female staff, was unsure how to respond to such flattery. She acted with indifference, which could have been mistaken as modesty – an appealing attribute in one so beautiful.

Jim returned to Asthall, and he, Tom and Diana became a peculiar trio. When the other Mitford children were outside riding and hunting, they spent their days indoors, lapping up joyous hours in the library where Jim expressed his devotion by teaching Diana to read the classics. They read poetry and fantasised about going to live in Greece, where they ‘would scorn material things and live on a handful of grapes by the sea’. Around this period, Jim had appointed himself as Diana’s faithful correspondent and the letters exchanged during this precarious time provide an insight into her outlook. As her intellect developed, she felt comfortable to confide her innermost thoughts to Jim. She told him: ‘There will never be another Shelley. I wish I had been alive then to marry him. He was more beautiful physically and mentally than an angel.’ And her philosophy on life was extremely modern for a sheltered teenager in the 1920s: ‘Why on earth should two souls (I wish there was a better word, I think SPIRIT is better). Why on earth should two spirits who are in love a bit have to marry … and renounce all other men and women?’ Monogamy, to Diana, was ‘SUPREMELY foolish’, but she was quick to acknowledge that speaking of ‘free love is almost a sin’. However, to dispel any hint of romance, she quickly informed Jim of his platonic place in her life: ‘I sometimes feel that I love you too much, but you are my spiritual brother.’

In 1926, Diana left for Paris to spend a year studying art at the Cours Fénelon, and during this period her letters to Jim became few and far between. She had fallen in love with the city, and had formed a circle of admirers who were a world away from Jim and his shy advances disguised by the written word. The ageing artist Paul César Helleu feted Diana, and this form of flattery coming from an adult turned her head more than Jim’s romantic prose.

After Diana’s departure for Paris, Jim had become morbidly obsessed with a recent divorcee, Joanie, the daughter of his mother’s cousin. Jim sent her love poetry – the typical gesture he would use time and time again with those he admired – and Joanie responded by driving down to Eton to take him to tea. In the New Year of 1926, they eventually began an affair, resulting in Joanie becoming pregnant. However, there is no certainty that Jim fathered the child, for she had so many casual affairs. The baby was stillborn, and Jim was haunted by guilt, stemming from his view that he had caused a human life, conceived in sin, to perish. Deeply disturbed by the incident, Jim fled England for Grenoble, where he studied a university course in French. His thoughts turned to Diana and the memories he held from their happier days in the library at Asthall Manor. The notion of being in love with an unworldly teenager was less troublesome than his love affair with the older Joanie, whose life came to a tragic end when she drowned herself at Monte Carlo.

Overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia, Jim wrote to Diana, in which he played to her frivolous vanity by addressing her as ‘Mona’ (after the Mona Lisa). Her letter, after a spell of silence, ‘dropped here today like the gentle dew from heaven. I cannot express my delight but imagine it as being intense … How I would adore to have a picture of you by M. Helleu’. He implored Diana to send him a memento; a snapshot of her Parisian self so he could see for himself if she had retained her Raphael face. ‘You can’t imagine what a joy it is to me the thought of having your face with me.’ Diana had become accustomed to receiving compliments on her beauty, rather than her brains, and the tokens dispelled in his letters were not a rarity. Jim confessed: ‘One can never love a friend too much,’ though by now he thought of Diana as something ‘higher than a friend’.

As for Diana, she was secretly pleased with Jim’s infatuation and had begun to recognise her power over the opposite sex, using it to exploit those who cared about her. Her letters adopted a priggish tone, boasting of her liaisons with French boys, after which, she warned Jim: ‘Don’t feel jealous’. It thrilled her to evoke feelings of jealousy, to torment the poor love-sick Jim, and she made it clear that she only confided in him because he was ‘so far from England’s green and pleasant land, where scandal travels fast’.

The hedonistic atmosphere was not to last and Diana suffered a bitter blow when Helleu died, suddenly, of peritonitis. The man she worshipped, and who for 3 months had worshipped her, was dead. She turned to Jim for comfort. ‘I shall never see him again …’ her letter ached with melancholy ‘… never hear his voice saying, “Sweetheart, comme tu es belle.”’ In another letter, she confessed: ‘Nobody will admire me again as he did.’ Jim might have disagreed, but he refrained from telling her otherwise, and wrote only to comfort her.

When Diana returned to England for the Easter holidays she was disheartened by the family’s new home, Swinbrook House – a grey, rectangular building designed by her father and decorated in mock rustic charm. Perhaps longing for a sense of familiarity, she wrote to Jim. ‘I have grown a little older, and more intense in my passions of love, sorrow and worship of beauty. To look at, I am the same. Pray for me, to your gods whatever they are. I am very unhappy.’ But, somewhere beneath her morbid facade, Diana was still a romantic at heart.

Jim’s letters from that time, although an escape from the dullness of everyday life, drew her attention to his love for her. In a sophisticated manner, she declared: ‘Sex is after all so unimportant in life. Beauty and art are what matter. Older people do not see my point of view.’ Diana failed to elaborate on the ‘older people’, surely a jibe at Jim, who was 2 years her senior. She did not, however, discourage the correspondence. In a similar light as Helleu, Jim praised her looks. ‘I have got dark skin and light hair and eyes which is an unattractive paradox,’ she dismissed his compliment. In the same sentence, Diana asked if he had seen the various beauties: Mary Thynne, Lettice Lygon and Georgie Curzon, to name a few. Jim’s passion could not be quelled, and Diana accepted his gifts of books, though she often critiqued his poetry when he sent it.

Finally, Jim was reunited with Diana in person. The sight of her in the flesh stunned him at first. She was no longer the sweet natured 14-year-old girl he had mentored in the library at Asthall. The long hair, which he had admired and likened to Botticelli’s Seaborne Venus, had been cut short. Although not outwardly fashionable, she began to alter her looks to appear more grown-up in her appearance. This adult version of Diana inspired the same feelings of passion he had felt for Joanie, who wore chic clothes and Parisian scent.

Hoping to instigate a romance with Diana, though from afar, Jim impulsively sent her a poem. Diana’s response was not what he had anticipated, and with a critical eye she advised him: ‘Read Alice Meynell’s short essay on false impressionism called The Point of Honour. This is not meant to be rude …’ Adopting an intellectual tone, she confidently told him: ‘Byron was a selfish, beautiful genius and not really more selfish than many men and most artists. As to Augusta, she was of the same temperament as I am, and just about as silly.’

Diana’s letters to Jim fizzled out, and tormented by her lack of communication, he turned his attention to Diana’s cousin and friend, Diana Churchill, whom he had met that summer. The other Diana, ‘like a fairy’ with her puny frame, pale complexion and red hair, was a haphazard substitute for his original love interest. In September, Diana invited him to the Churchill family home, Chartwell, and he readily accepted once he learned that Diana Mitford would also be staying with her brother, Tom. Unlike at Asthall and Swinbrook, where Jim could escape with Diana and Tom, the ‘brats’ (a Churchillian term of endearment) congregated in the drawing room and at the dining table. They listened to Winston Churchill’s monologue on the Battle of Jutland as he shifted decanters and wine glasses, in place of the ships, around the table, furiously puffing on his cigar to represent the gun smoke. With Churchill’s attention fixed on the children, his boisterous son Randolph seized an opportunity to flatter Diana, with whom he was madly in love. ‘Papa,’ he mischievously asked his father, ‘guess who is older, our Diana or Diana M?’
‘Our Diana,’ came the reply from Churchill, spoiling Randolph’s plan.
‘Oh, Papa, nobody else thinks so but you!’
During the stay, Diana was surrounded by her two most ardent admirers and Jim noticed that she outwardly relished being in Randolph’s company, despite her frequent protests about his immature behaviour. Jim could only look on, his hopes and feelings deflated.

In the new year of 1928, Jim returned to Swinbrook to stay for the weekend. Diana hoped to corner him for a congenial chat about literature, but the pleasant visit took a turn for the worse when, over dinner, Nancy praised an anti-German film she had watched at the cinema. Still harbouring a strong dislike for Germans, their father, Lord Redesdale, made his usual offensive remark: ‘The only good German is a dead German.’
Leaping to the defence of the film and of the German people, Jim said: ‘Anyhow, talking of atrocities, the worst in the whole war were committed by the Australians.’
‘Be quiet and don’t talk about what you don’t understand. Young swine!’ Lord Redesdale exploded.
Mortified by her father’s outburst, Diana broke the heavy silence when she haughtily announced: ‘I wish people needn’t be so rude to their guests!’
Flexing his authority as master of the household, Lord Redesdale ordered Jim from Swinbrook. Frogmarched to the front door, he was thrown outside where it was teeming with rain. After several failed attempts to start up his motorcycle, he sneaked back into the house and crept up to bed.
Awaking at 6 o’clock the next morning, Jim bumped into Lord Redesdale, stalking the hallway, as he did every morning, wearing his paisley print robe and drinking tea from a thermos. Anticipating another scene, Jim was pleasantly surprised when Lord Redesdale appeared to have forgotten the offensive exchange and greeted him warmly.

The turbulent visit settled into a bittersweet memory for Jim and, although he did not know it at the time, it would be his last visit with Diana at Swinbrook. He rightly sensed that Diana’s mind was focused on finding a suitable husband to rescue her from the great boredom of family life. With his ‘impecunious and melancholic’ nature, Jim knew he was not an ideal candidate, and long after he had departed from her life, Diana remained ‘the unattainable object of his desire’.

In 1928, Diana met and became engaged to Bryan Guinness. Jim received the news of Diana’s engagement with little enthusiasm. It came like a ‘cruel blow’ which greatly upset him. Diana attempted to console him with a short, but sweet, letter: ‘I know you will like him [Bryan] because he is too angelic and not rough and loathes shooting and loves travelling and all the things I love.’ She was preoccupied with a glamorous, materialistic world, and given Bryan’s wealth, it served to make Jim feel worthless. ‘When we are married and live in London, you must often come and see us,’ she gently coaxed him. He sent Diana a wedding present of books, and apart from her customary thank you note, he did not set eyes on her for the next 25 years.

Quotations from the letters between Diana Mitford and James Lees-Milne were taken from James Lees-Milne: The Life by Michael Bloch (John Murray, 2009) and reprinted with permission in Mrs Guinness: The Rise and Fall of Diana Mitford (The History Press, 2015).

Evelyn Waugh & The Mitfords by Jeffrey Manley

Originally published in The Mitford Society: Vol. I. Copyright of Jeffrey Manley/The Mitford Society

Evelyn Waugh was a close friend of two of the Mitford sisters (Nancy and Diana), and an acquaintance of a third (Deborah). Waugh met Nancy in the late 1920s in connection with his courtship of, and marriage to, Evelyn Gardner (“She-Evelyn”). Nancy was, at the time, a close friend of She-Evelyn and was present at the 1927 party in She-Evelyn’s flat to which Alec Waugh (by then a successful novelist) brought his younger brother (“He-Evelyn”). It was there that He-Evelyn met his future wife for the first time. Nancy was also She-Evelyn’s companion during the periods in 1929 when He-Evelyn left their marital flat in Islington for extended periods to write Vile Bodies. It was in these absences that She-Evelyn started her affair with John Heygate, which resulted in the dissolution of her marriage. Nancy was said to have been unaware of the affair prior to the break-up. Nancy ended her friendship with She-Evelyn after the separation but remained on friendly terms with Waugh.

It has been suggested that it was Waugh who encouraged Nancy to write, and many of her early novels resemble Waugh’s own early comic works. Some literary scholars have also described two of Nancy’s post-war novels (Love in a Cold Climate and The Pursuit of Love) as having been inspired to some extent by the success of Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. It is also widely accepted that Nancy’s husband Peter Rodd, to whom she was unhappily married for over 20 years, contributed heavily to the character of Basil Seal, who appears in several of Waugh’s novels. In addition, Waugh’s 1948 novel The Loved One is dedicated to Nancy and she was godmother to Waugh’s daughter, Harriet. Nancy dedicated her 1951 novel, The Blessing, to Waugh.

Nancy and Waugh engaged in an extended correspondence which began after they had both established themselves as writers. Their regular correspondence dates from the last years of the war and concludes with Waugh’s death in 1966. During this period they commented on each others work, sometimes seeking and offering advice on works-in-progress. Waugh’s friend, novelist Anthony Powell, commented that Waugh “got more from Nancy about upper-class life than he would probably have cared to admit.” (Anthony Powell, Journals: 1900-1992, London, 1997, p. 98) Most of their correspondence has survived and was published in 1996 where it is described by editor Charlotte Mosley in her preface as, “like overhearing a conversation between two quick-witted, provocative, very funny friends, who know the same people, read the same books, laugh at the same jokes and often share the same prejudices.”

Waugh was also, but more briefly, a close friend of Diana Mitford, whom he met in 1929. Waugh knew her first husband Bryan Guinness from Oxford. After the break-up of his marriage, Waugh lived for extended periods during 1929-30 with the Guinnesses. He wrote the last part of his novel Vile Bodies while visiting them, and most of his travel book Labels was written while he stayed by himself in their summer house in Sussex. Both of those books are dedicated to them, and he gave them the original typescript of Vile Bodies when it was published in January 1930. (This typescript was sold by their son, Jonathan, in 1984 for £55,000.)

Waugh also seems to have become infatuated with Diana while visiting with them in their Paris residence during the confinement for her first pregnancy. After the child (Jonathan) was born, she resumed a more active social life, and Waugh felt neglected. He was godfather to Jonathan, but after the baptism they maintained a more distant friendship, meeting infrequently. They each were married a second time, he to Laura Herbert and she to Oswald Mosley.

Just before Waugh’s death, their correspondence resumed, and they effectively sought each other’s forgiveness for the rupture that had occurred in 1930. In this late correspondence, they also acknowledged indirectly that Diana to some extent contributed to the character of Lucy in Waugh’s novel fragment Work Suspended. Waugh’s last published letter was on this subject. It was sent to Diana on 30 March 1966, and he died a little over a week later.

Waugh met the youngest Mitford sister, Deborah, at a drunken Christmas party in Wiltshire near where her husband, Andrew Devonshire, was stationed during the war. The first impression was not a favorable one, as Waugh’s debauched behaviour rather shocked Deborah, who seems to have shared her negative impression with her sisters. In her memoirs (p. 116), Deborah recalled that at one point Waugh “poured a bottle of Green Chartreuse over his head and, rubbing it into his hair, intoned, ‘My hair is covered in gum, my hair is covered in gum,’ while the sticky mess ran down his neck.” When Waugh learned of her discomposure, he made an effort to repair his reputation by sending her a hat from Paris shortly after the war.

Waugh’s standing was sufficiently restored to merit an invitation several years later to Chatsworth House, but he again put his foot in it by complaining that a chamber pot in his room had remained un-emptied. This was probably intended as a joke but engendered more correspondence among the Mitford sisters in which Deborah expressed her chagrin at his behaviour. On this occasion, Waugh seems to have restored himself by sending Deborah a presentation copy of his biography of the Roman Catholic theologian Ronald Knox. It was accompanied by a letter assuring Deborah that nothing in the book “would offend her Protestant persuasion.” When she later opened the book, she found that the copy she had been sent consisted of blank pages. In this instance, she got the joke.

Jeffrey Manley is a retired lawyer and member of the Evelyn Waugh Society. He lives in Austin, Texas. Visit the Evelyn Waugh Society at evelynwaughsociety.org

The Mitfords & Hitler by Jane Thynne

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Of all the Mitford eccentricities, it is Unity’s obsession with Adolf Hitler that lingers longest in the national consciousness. Even now, the story of the young British aristocrat who followed Hitler to Germany and eventually attempted death rather than leave him, is the most memorable of all the sisters’ stories. So it’s interesting to note that Unity caused just as much amazement among the men in Hitler’s circle as she did among any of her compatriots.

The arrival of Unity, and later Diana, in Nazi Germany provoked deep suspicion among the men at the top of Hitler’s hierarchy. Himmler, Goebbels and Goering all failed to understand why the Führer was so taken with these two upper-class English girls, and they suspected that their Führer’s judgment was fatally swayed by them.

When I was writing The Winter Garden, the second of my novels featuring Clara Vine, an Anglo-German actress in pre-war Berlin, I was keen to explore the way in which the Mitfords managed to discomfort those at the very top of the regime. The novel is set in 1937, a time when Hitler still held out the possibility that some Grand Alliance between Great Britain and Germany could be formed that would allow him to proceed with extending the German Lebensrum eastwards. In the Autumn of that year the recently abdicated Duke of Windsor and his new wife Wallis Simpson chose Nazi Germany, of all places, for their honeymoon – a choice which left the British government fit to be tied. British Embassy officials in Berlin were instructed that they were not to offer the ex-King anything at all “not even a cocktail sausage”, but the Nazis stepped in to fill the gap, rolling out the red carpet at Friedrichstrasse station and providing the Duke with a packed schedule of opera evenings, factory visits and other PR opportunities for the Third Reich. The fact that Unity and Diana should be in Germany around the same time as the royal couple made it the perfect backdrop for the novel’s spy mission and murder.

Of all the Nazi ministers, it was Joseph Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister, who was closest to Diana and Unity, largely through the friendship between his wife Magda and Diana. The Goebbels had even lent Diana Mitford and Sir Oswald Mosley the use of their Berlin home for their wedding in 1936, with the reception held at the family’s country villa in Schwanenwerder, a short drive away through the Grunewald, where the newly-weds were presented with the complete works of Goethe, and the Goebbels children attended carrying posies of flowers. The following year, in 1937, Diana made another visit to Germany, soliciting funds for a Fascist radio station to be set up in Heligoland, and in between watching Mickey Mouse with the Führer at the Reich Chancellery, she again met up with the Goebbels.

In the end, Joseph Goebbels decided that the Mosleys were a busted flush, and should receive no more Third Reich funding. Yet for the Nazis, Diana and Unity remained an enigma. Were the British ruling-classes really like that, or were the Mitfords eccentric one-offs? Although Magda Goebbels, Joseph’s unhappy wife, was friendly with Diana, Goebbels himself was far less seduced. In his diaries of the time he questions whether the Mitfords truly “spring from the soul of the British people”. It mattered, because if the sisters could be considered true representatives of the English ruling-class, then it meant that Hitler’s dreams of an alliance with Great Britain might be fulfilled. In The Winter Garden there is a scene in which Clara Vine, who as well as an actress is a British agent, is quizzed by Goebbels about the precise nature of the Mitfords. Clara fills him in on some of Unity’s eccentricities, including the fact that she was given to greeting English shopkeepers with the Nazi salute, that she had brought her pet snake to Germany with her, and that a live rat sometimes travelled in her handbag. The bourgeois Goebbels was, in fiction as well as in reality, predictably appalled.

Himmler, the pathological head of the Gestapo, did not concern himself so much with social nuances. As far as he was concerned a woman like Unity was a security risk, and he had her tailed by an SS agent who would follow her round, disguised as a photographer. Even when Unity wrote a piece for a National Socialist newspaper about why she was learning to shoot so that she could kill Jews, Himmler still had his suspicions. Unity’s home-made storm-trooper outfit also failed to sway him.

The feelings of the other Nazi power couple, the Goerings, were equally cool. Unity had eyes only for Hitler so Hermann Goering took little interest. Emmy Goering, a former actress, would refer to Unity as “Mitfahrt” meaning the travelling companion, and made cruel jokes about her ankles.

Perhaps one reason we are so interested in the story of the pro-Hitler Mitfords is because they are rare English examples of a phenomenon that was all too well-known in Germany – the fascination with the Führer. It was a fascination that afflicted women in particular. Each year Hitler received many thousands of fan letters and daily offers from women to bear his children. Every birthday and Christmas an avalanche of cakes as well as embroidered cushions, gloves, and other clothes were sent in. In more eye-catching evidence of devotion, there were incidences when women waiting for Hitler’s car to approach would tear open their blouses to bear their breasts as he passed. Others threw themselves at his car, attempting to do themselves some injury in the hope that the Führer himself would emerge to comfort them.

Hitler, in turn, did not underestimate the importance of women to maintaining the Nazi state. He said: “In my Germany, the mother is the most important citizen.” And he recognized that it was women, not men, who were central in passing on the ideology of the Third Reich to their children. Thus, women attending the National Socialist Bride Schools, which feature in The Winter Garden, were taught a special prayer to say to their future children, in which the words “Our Führer” replaced “Our Father”. They were also instructed to tell fairy stories with the correct, Nazi ideology, which was all about racial consciousness. In the National Socialist Cinderella, for example, the Prince rejects the Ugly Sisters not on aesthetic grounds, but because they are Slavs.

Ultimately, Goebbels’ question about the Mitford sisters – do they spring from the soul of the British people? – was an acute one. Not because they typified the views of the ruling class, but because despite their political differences Unity, Diana, and the others did embody a profoundly British quality. The ability to hold polarized beliefs, while retaining an underlying affection for each other. To thumb their noses at convention. To see each other’s point of view, even while despising it. In their eccentricity, imagination, humour and originality they epitomized Englishness. Goebbels should have paid more attention.

The Winter Garden is published by Simon & Schuster.

Jane Thynne was born in Venezuela in 1961 and grew up with her parents and two brothers in London. After school in Hampton, she spent a year working at the Old Vic Theatre before reading English at St Anne’s College, Oxford. She joined the BBC as a production trainee, but after a few years succumbed to a hankering for Fleet Street and moved to The Sunday Times. Jane spent many cheerful years at The Daily Telegraph as media correspondent, but her single most exciting moment in that time was getting a publishing contract for her first novel. Her novels have been translated into French, German and Italian. Black Roses will be published in France by J.C Lattes in 2014 and the second in the Clara Vine series, The Winter Garden, in 2015. The third in the Clara Vine series, A War Of Flowers, was published in the UK by Simon & Schuster in November 2014. It will be published in the US and Canada by Random House in 2015.

As well as writing books, Jane is a freelance journalist, writing regularly for numerous British magazines and newspapers, and also appears as a broadcaster on Radio 4.

She is married to the writer Philip Kerr and they live with their three children in London.

Extracted from The Mitford Society: Vol. II