Decca, p.33
Decca, page 33
Sorry to be so preoccupied with the ruddy book, but I am, and won’t really rest easy till it’s finished. Somehow, the thought of it really and truly getting out is now rather terrifying, and as a result it is fearfully on my mind. I was very glad Muv liked it so much. She made several quite batty suggestions for revision, all of which I’ve done, such as… my appendix scar was only 8 inches, not 12; I shouldn’t mention the Potterton (water heater) by their real name and say it was foul smelling, as they might sue for libel.47 She was awfully upset about being quoted on our M.P. from Oxfordshire, that he was “such a dull little man,” but just as I had agreed to strike that she got a letter from an aunt telling that she had just attended his funeral! Benj now refers to the M.P. as “the man Dec killed.”
We had lunch with Celia, the surviving Paget Twin. To my horror, I learned that the other one died of asthma five years ago (she was married to Arthur Koestler.)48 Celia was awfully nice, just as I remember her in 193??? and she is still mad because I never wrote to tell her that she was the unwitting key to the running away, says she could have arranged a far better cover-up for us had she only known.
We went to see Idden in a play.49 It just opened in London, and has had the most ghastly reviews I’ve seen in years—fairly well deserved, I’m sorry to say, tho Id was awfully good in it. Robin told me she has had a Nervous Breakdown, a couple of years ago. I’m finding out that lots of English people are going mad these days, just like at home. Muv thinks it is because of the white bread. Anyway, I’m to see Idden tomorrow. She sounds all right over the phone.
Oh dear I must close now, tho one is allowed 5 pages of this paper for 1/3 postage. We are off to dinner with the DuBois’s. Probably too L. for you, so I won’t bother to write you an account.50 Haven’t met up with any Unitarians, or even (like you) Ex-Unitarians, in this uncivilized town…
Your loving Decca
To Aranka Treuhaft
London
June 1,1959
Dear Aranka,
…We are having a terrific lot of fun in London—specially Bob, as I have to work all day and can’t go with him to Old Bailey trials, House of Lords and Commons etc.; but everything has been lined up for him…. I’m slaving each morning; meeting up with Bob for social life afternoons and evenings … [including] dinner with various shades-of-pastish people I used to know when I was a debutante…
We went to dinner the other night with the Heskeths. Peter Hesketh is an old beau of Nancy’s, and he used to take me out occasionally too when I was a girl. The dinner party was a riot. There were about 8 rather dullish people there, including Peter’s rather dullish wife, and his daughter who popped in and out between dances, she’s in the middle of her first season. We were invited for 7, and between then and 9 there wasn’t a sign of any food, just enormous drinks of whiskey. At 9, Peter set a table for 8, groaning and complaining bitterly as he did so about what a lot of trouble it was; on it he set a small platter of bought cold meats, legs of chicken and the like, and a tiny salad. As I was served first, I took almost all of everything. And that was all, except for some strawberries and cream (strawberries are currently selling for about 2s each). No coffee, bread, vegs., almost no nothing. Masses of wine, tho, with dinner, and brandy after. We reeled home at midnight. This is just what Cedric was telling us about that sort of English person; if they don’t have servants, or if the servants are out, they simply give up, and would rather starve than cook. From now on I don’t think I’ll accept any invitations unless they are in restaurants…
Gollancz has accepted a sketch by Pele for the cover of my book! I’m so pleased. First they said they never take covers by outside artists, but they liked hers very much, and said OK. … The title is settled, Red Sheep. It comes from a headline in a Canadian paper last year: Red Sheep Disinherited. …
Bob showed Muv the latest Un-American Committee report on red lawyers, in which he rates a couple of pages as “one of the 38 most dangerous Communist lawyers in the country.”51 Among other things, he is accused of having been counsel for the Berkeley chapter of Minute Women for Peace. “Minute Women!” said Muv, pronouncing it to rhyme with Canute. “How sweet!” My solicitor, Richard Turner, wasn’t much better. Bob showed it to him; he said, “a midget troupe, I presume?”; So, you see, I’m not the only English person who’s never heard of the American Revolution.52 …
Nancy wrote to my solicitor saying that if the others are willing to sell the Island, she will give me her share for a present! Isn’t that amazing of her, I am bowled over, and wrote to say it is much too expensive a present as the shares are worth at least 1,500 pounds each. She wrote back to say it is because she thought I got a raw deal about Farve’s will;53 so, as they say, “It’s an ill will that brings nobody any good.” I haven’t heard from the other sisters yet. Imagine Diana will be sticky.54 …
Love to Edith, Children, and all at shop, and fondest to Dinky, do make her write even if just a note.
Decca
To Pele de Lappe
London
June 5, 1959
Dear Neighbor,
Yesterday we went round to Gollancz’s, to talk with Miss Livia Gollancz who is in charge of covers, and Mr. Rubinstein, in charge of editorial department. There has been an agonizing going around on the question of a title, which has now become urgent as, if you are doing the cover, you must know the title in ample time. The cover comes first…. Anyway, the title is now settled. It is:
HONS AND REBELS
by
Jessica Mitford
Thousands of others were considered and discarded. The one I liked best was Revolting Daughters but the Gollancz people put their feet down on that one. James thought it up. I do hope you all like Hons and Rebels? I don’t think it’s at all bad, and only rather fear Nancy will think it’s cashing in on her stuff. Anyway, no need for any of them to know what the title is till I’m safely back home…
The family are being a riot about the book. Tremendous speculation as to what it will be like (I’m not letting any of them read it, natch, except Muv, who read the first few chapters and swore not to discuss it with the sisters). Debo keeps saying “Oh Hen, I do hope it’s not going to be frank,” and the other day we were in Heywood Hill’s bookshop (right around the corner from Debo’s house in Mayfair, and Nancy worked there for years during the war, Heywood is sort of an old friend and associate of all the family). Heywood told us that a Gollancz salesman had been in and told him they were publishing my book, and that a day or so later Debo, Nancy and Diana were all in his shop twittering and wringing their hands about it.
I’ve got it all in shape except for the knotty last chapter….
We have bought the Island. Are you amazed? It really does seem an awfully good investment…. It does seem a bit extraorder that after all that’s happened, ONE ends up with the whole estate or what’s left of it…
We’ve seen a bit of the Old Dutch,55 but not the children, who are at school. Emma is being crammed for Oxford, it seems odd (but encouraging) that one of Debo’s children should want to go there.…
Write soon, by return of post if possible, to Paris, as a) we probably won’t be there very long, and b) I absolutely long to hear from you…
Your loving Neighbor.
To Marge Frantz
Paris
June 10, 1959
Dear old Marge,
… The houseparties won’t start [at the island] for a while because all will be left exactly as is as long as Muv wants to live there, twill be her place, run by her, for as long as she wants. I think she would fade away if she had to leave the Isle, she so adores it, and seems relieved by the present arrangement. Also, she takes daily walks looking over the status of things (“mmm, Little D., I think it’s time we had the hay cut. Ohhn, the poor calf is lying down, I hope she isn’t ill…”) which I could never do because I wouldn’t have the brains to know the hay needed cutting etc. All we now have to fork over is about $12,000 cash, and it will be ours. We’re going to pay out of the Romilly ill will money, so that’s all right. A good investment, I think…
Re. the book.… No contract so far from Houghton-Mifflin, and I must tell you about that bit. H-M doesn’t even have a copy of it! The H-M representative … didn’t have time to read it, so he gave it to his wife to read. She read it, was all for it, the H-M man agreed, sight unseen, and that’s that…
You can’t conceive of the intense curiosity on the part of the family about it…. Debo found out by a chance remark of mine that our Cruise saying to Ld. Rathcredon, “Rathcredon, Red, Come to Bed” was in.56 No sooner do I arrive in Paris than Nancy confronts me with this. Every tidbit about the book is flashed from Ireland to England to Paris in less time than it takes to tell. Should be good for 4 sales, at least, don’t you think…
Pam is here, staying with the Mosleys. She just arrived, and Nancy is trying to arrange for us to see her; tho Nancy claims this is rendered near-impossible because of the non-speakers of us and the Mosleys…. We envisage scenes as in corny French bedroom farces, the Mosleys popping out of one room, down an oubliette, us hiding in the stove, etc. As I pointed out to Nancy, just their cho sen place for us anyway, too bad it isn’t lit in summertime, from their point of view…
Dear old Marge, so sorry I haven’t described Paris. It is really beyond description. Do keep writing, I so long for letters.…
your loving Dec.
Fondest love to Laurent and Children, do get them to write. ps. I’m trying to think of a Socko Beginning for the book…. Possibly the clue is in some of the voluminous scrapbooks [at the island]. Muv has kept every clipping about any or all of us, gathered and pasted in huge bound tomes. She said reflectively the other day, “whenever I see a headline in the papers beginning ‘Peer’s Daughter …’ I know it’s going to be about one of you children.”
How would it be to gather a few of the more interesting, and representative, headlines and somehow work them into a brief prologue?
Or, alt. idea, a brief prologue about coming back for the 1st time in 1955, at age of 38, and noting various reminiscent things—this would give more range. The things would be in the form of what Steve calls “teasers,” hinting at their future significance. This sort of thing:
Walking down Rutland Gate, seeing the White Slavers house, the hammer and sickles followed by swastikas carved by diamonds in the mews windows, my coming out photo and the chocs, talking to Mabel (our old parlormaid) and her telling how Farve would never have hired her had he known she was going to get married (30 years after she came to us) and going to Debo’s and seeing in her wedding scrapbook, next to Elizabeth R.’s t.gram of congrats., my own saying “honnish congratulations on a successful season’s duke hunting”57 and meeting Philip in the Mews for the first time in 16 years and how he was literally like a dog returning to his vomit, as the last time he was there was for our farewell party when we left for the U.S. and he threw up all over the floor …
You get the idea, sort of a medley of memories, which get explained later on in the book itself. Do let me know if you have any ideas on this.
Bob did love the Farewell Party you gave for him, but the hopeless old thing is awful about reporting. He said SOMEONE there said “Decca is the Clare Booth Luce of the Left Wing,” and now he can’t remember who said it. Do tell me, so I can strike them off my list.
To Marge Frantz
“Somewhere in La Belle France”
June (“20th, I think”), 1959
Dear old Marge,
Thanks so much for yr letter—the one with critique of draft plus loads of news, received just as we were taking off from Paris. Offhand I don’t agree with the starting point of your criticisms (that one can’t generalize about classes of people—I’ve always thought one could; the Dutch, for instance, are as depressingly clean as one is always told they are; the Southern French, as warmly filthy; Southern U.S., faintly squalid etc. etc. and the Petit Bourgeoisie, as Lenin so truly said, vacillating). However, I am going to comb it over & over to make it make more sense, if you see what I mean, in view of your comments.
The Last Time I Saw Paris (2 days ago) Dobby & Mason were there [and various other friends]. … Those who had been treated by the Govts. behind the Iron Curtain were complaining loudly about the accommodations in Paris they could afford—a big come-down. Some even came down to our Hotel de Suède—characterized optimistically and accurately, by Nancy (who found it for us) as “above the bug level.” …
Mason avers there is no housing shortage in the Soviet Union, after hearing which I stopped listening. (In spite of the fact I, unlike you, wish nothing but the best for the Soviets.) …
Love from Decca
To Marge Frantz
Hotel Paradis, Mont des Roses,
Bormes-les-Mimosas, Var, France
June 26, 1959
Dearest old Marge,
I’m not showing off, that really is our address. We are now settled, and by great good luck (and by assiduously avoiding following Nancy’s advice) in a very good place. The Cote d’Azur is, on the whole, one Frenchified Coney
Island after another However, the name of this place, which we found listed
in the faithful Guide Michelin, was not misleading. It is a lovely old-fashioned hotel with flowered terrace (for eating on) and we have a cottage to ourselves in the garden, with all the conforts modernes as they say in these parts (I think it means a john one can sit on as contrasted to hole in floor), delicious food so far, all for about $3.50 a day each, including breakfast and dinner…. [I]t is much cheaper not to live at home.
Nearby is Le Lavandou, a honky-tonk beach for Benj, with bikini’d beauties and boats for hire; also nearby is a terribly pretty little town (in the hills) called Bormes…
The schedule here is going to be for me to get down to work—starting tomorrow morning. And to really stay at it till all is finished. So do write, otherwise I won’t have the classic excuse (got to answer letters) for quitting from time to time…
Tonight before dinner, we got in a conversation with a middle aged Fr. couple in a nearby café. Monsieur turned out to be an executive of a major Fr. newspaper (in Lyons); he proudly told us several times that he is in charge of all the journalists on his paper, and is the boss of 1,000 workers. We tried to get them into an argument about the Algerian war, but every time things began to get interesting they would say, “but Madame” (that’s me) “has the peaceful face of an angel, she wouldn’t understand these mournful things…” Bob kept asking me, “what’s French for ‘misleading’? I want to tell them your face is misleading,” but natch I wouldn’t tell him, specially since I couldn’t think of it right off. Then we tried to get them about the De Gaullist censorship of the Express, etc., but they turned that off by saying “one would take Madame for Belgian, her French is so academique!” Which made me feel good. The other day someone asked me if I were Swiss, but I thought that was probably just a polite way of asking if one was German.
Germans abound here, I’m sorry to say. The Fr. say they got a taste for French cooking during the Occupation; whatever the cause, there are too many for my liking. There was a large group of them, guzzling champagne, at the 3-star place in Baux, middle-aged fatsoes, made one shudder to look at them. Benj gave the usual trouble, just as Dink and Nebby Lou did last time: “But how do you know they’re bad?”; Trying not to get into a long argument, I said, “by the backs of their necks” (which were classic: huge, red and beefy). “Just like the guys down South,” Benj complained. “You shouldn’t be against someone just because of the color of his neck.” Hopeless child, I should never have let you inveigle him to that Unitarian Sunday School. …
Love to all, kiss the Children, and do teach them French before they come here, as poor Benj is severely handicapped by not knowing any.
Dec
To Barbara and Ephraim Kahn
Bormes-les-Mimosas, Var
July 3, 1959
Dearest Kahns,
Sorry about this address…. In mitigation, Bob claims I chose it because it was the most pollinated-sounding place I could find, and calls it (with his accustomed grouchiness) Hotel Allergie…
Life here is even-keelish to say the least. It’s the sort of hotel where Fr. bourgeois gentility reigns supreme. Dinner, eaten out of doors on the terrace in full view of bougainvillea-shrouded sunset, is a near-silent meal, the only greetings exchanged between one and fellow-guests being a polite, grave bow and “bon soir.” It is served by a sloe-eyed (and fast-footed) young waiter of courteous-verging-on-grim demeanor. The courses are many and absolutely delicious.
The only people we’ve fraternized with during the past week (since arriving here) are a One’s ageish Jewish couple, English, also…
They are fairly nice yet fairly awful, if you know what I mean. On the other hand, they are extremely easy to one-up. They are the sort of Jewish snobs who look down most contemptuously on the “loud, nouveau-riche” (to quote them) Jews. So the other day they were raving about Benj, who they adore, and saying that when “races and cultures are mixed, often a really superior child is produced as a result—providing there is good stock on both sides to begin with.” I inquired about the good stock, turns out that from the Jewish side it means in general a non-garment worker and non-nouveau riche. After leading them on quite a while on this theme, and getting them thoroughly committed, I described Aranka to them (I must admit I laid it on a bit thick), immigrant factory worker at 13 in New York, made her name and pile in the Garment Industry. (I suppose hats are garments, in a way, wouldn’t you say so?)…
