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INTRODUCTION
The Mitford sisters first began to make headlines in the late 1920s and have rarely been out of the news since. Between them they were close to many key figures of the last century. They knew Winston Churchill, John F. Kennedy and Hitler; were friends of Lytton Strachey, Evelyn Waugh and Maya Angelou; sat for Augustus John, Lucian Freud and Cecil Beaton; entertained the Queen, the Duchess of Windsor and Katherine Graham; were guests of Lord Berners, Goebbels and Givenchy. They lived out their lives in very different spheres, from the London of the Bright Young Things, pre-war Munich and cosmopolitan Paris, to rural Ireland, left-wing California and the deep English countryside.
How did these six sisters, offspring of parents whose highest hopes for their daughters were that they should make good wives, achieve such fame? Some clues can be found in the personalities and careers of their forebears. Talent often misses a generation and the sisters’ grandfathers on both sides of the family were notable in their day. Bertram Mitford, the 1st Baron Redesdale, was a diplomat, politician and author. His memoirs were admired by Edmund Gosse and his collection of popular Japanese stories, Tales of Old Japan, is still in print today. The Mitfords’ maternal grandfather, Thomas Gibson Bowles, was a politician and journalist who started the popular weekly satirical magazine Vanity Fair (unrelated to its modern namesake) and The Lady, founded in 1883 and still famous for its classified columns advertising for domestic help. A combative and opinionated self-made man, Bowles used Vanity Fair and his position as a Member of Parliament as weapons to bring down his opponents. Never afraid of saying what he thought, he relished being a gadfly to the Establishment and engaged in a constant guerrilla warfare of press campaigns and court cases. His energy, wit and what The Times described as a ‘temperamental dislike of compromise’ passed down in generous measure to his granddaughters, who also inherited his interest in politics and a gift for writing.
While the sisters’ enduring reputation owes much to their originality, forceful opinions, and good looks, the turbulent times in which they grew up provided the catalyst for their highly publicized exploits. The decade leading up to the Second World War was one of ideological extremes and, like many of their contemporaries, they were drawn to radical politics which they saw as the answer to Europe’s ills. Their beliefs spanned the political spectrum, from fascism, Nazism and communism, to socialism, Gaullism and Conservatism, politics dividing the family as surely as religion had done in former centuries, political absolutism replacing religious absolutes. The causes they took up were closely connected with the men who embodied them, with the difference that Unity and Jessica chose men whose politics corresponded with their own natural ideological tendencies, while Nancy and Diana’S political beliefs were sustained by the men they loved.
For a family that is regarded as quintessentially English it is interesting that all the sisters, except Deborah, spent much of their lives abroad. Consciously or unconsciously, the desire to set themselves apart from their siblings, to stand out as individuals and not just as one of the ‘Mitford girls’, drove them not only into opposite political camps but also to different parts of the world. What the sisters shared, however, was stronger than that which divided them. In spite of their differences, and however little their daily lives might have in common, they needed to keep in touch; recounting their lives to each other was a vital part of their existence. Only Jessica broke this chain by completely severing ties with Diana before the war, when political antipathy replaced her childhood love for her ‘favourite person in the world’, and when too much bitterness made meeting on the basis of sisterly fondness ‘unthinkable’.
A family correspondence of this scope and size is rare; for it to include four such gifted writers makes it unique. Nancy, Diana, Jessica and Deborah were all published authors, their books international bestsellers that are mostly still in print. Even Unity, whose suicide attempt effectively cut off her development in her mid-twenties, and Pamela, who was slowed down by a bout of childhood polio, wrote with natural, distinctive voices.
Eighty years separate the earliest surviving letter between the sisters – a note written in 1923 by nine-year-old Unity, who was on a seaside holiday in Sussex, to thirteen-year-old Diana who had stayed at home – and the last – a fax sent in 2003 by 83-year-old Deborah from her home in England to 93-year-old Diana who was dying in Paris. The letters began as a trickle while the sisters were still living at home, swelled in number in the 1930s as they gradually went out into the world, and reached a flood after the war when they setfled in different countries and saw each other less often. Although they started using the telephone in the 1950s – Diana and Deborah used to ring regularly on Sunday mornings and when Nancy and Diana were both living in France they spoke almost daily – telephoning remained of secondary importance; letters were their principal means of keeping in touch. The post and everything that touched on it played a key part in their lives: Jessica left $5,000 in her will to her local postman; Deborah’s idea of contentment in old age was to be the postmistress of a small village; and at the end of her life Diana was reconciled to moving from a house and garden in the suburbs to a flat in Paris mainly because it was situated immediately above a post office. While the sisters’ correspondence with one another represents just a fraction of their total output – they rarely left a letter unanswered and kept up with many hundreds of other correspondents – it is unique because it was sustained over a lifetime.
The strength of feeling amongst the sisters was intense: childhood love, sympathy, generosity and loyalty were mixed with hate, envy, resentment and exasperation – sentiments that remained with them to a greater or lesser extent throughout their lives and give their letters to one another an adolescent quality which persists even in old age. During their childhood, alliances were formed and broken, common enemies fought then sided with. As they grew up, politics hardened their positions and determined which camp they chose to support. In a family where overt demonstrations of love were avoided and where the English upper-class code of frowning on any public display of emotion was observed, teasing was a relatively safe way of dealing with sibling rivalry and of expressing affection. The joking relationship between them acted as a safeguard, creating an environment in which tensions could be defused before they grew too serious. Nancy, as the eldest, was usually the instigator of these practices which she carried on even in later life, partly in commemoration of schoolroom custom but also because her jealousy of her sisters was never fully resolved and her feelings towards them remained ambivalent. Teasing, in her hands, could become a cruel weapon, while for the others it was a way of deflating self-importance or relieving the tedium of long winter evenings when they had only each other for company. Their father, Lord Redesdale, disliked having people to stay, and when there were guests he did not always make them feel welcome. Once when the house was full of Nancy’s friends, he shouted down the table to his wife, ‘Have these people no homes of their own?’
Jessica described having sisters as ‘a great toughening and weathering process’ which prepared one for later life. When Nancy once ventured that she thought sisters were a protection against life’s cruel circumstances, Jessica countered that, as a child, her sisters were the cruel circumstances. Diana wrote that she regarded it as a fault of their upbringing that it should be considered unthinkable to admit to ‘weakness, misery or despair’. Certainly all six sisters had the capacity to withstand private tragedy and public opprobrium with unusual resilience – often appearing insensible to other people’S opinions – and were practised at putting on a brave face and hiding their vulnerability behind a lightly worn armour of flippancy and self-deprecation. They wore this protective shield not just with the outside world, where it was often taken for ruthlessness, but also with each other and, with few exceptions, rarely shared their most intimate confidences. While avoiding emotional depth and turning everything into a joke is a widespread English custom, the sisters’ comic genius transformed a national character trait into an art form.
Less inhibited than their memoirs and more intimate than the biographies that have been written about them, the sisters’ correspondence explores the kaleidoscopic pattern of their shifting relationships and exposes less-well-known sides of their complex and contradictory characters. Unlike many books about the Mitford family that have focused on the years when the sisters’ exploits intersected with historical events, their letters cover their whole lives, revealing how triumphs and tragedies wore down their youthful fanaticism.
The sisters wrote to each other to confide, commiserate, tease, rage and gossip but above all they wrote to amuse; when something made them laugh, half the fun of it was to relate it to a sibling. Beneath their contrasting personalities they shared a common temperament: unconditional in their loves and hates and passionate about the causes they embraced, they also possessed the ability to laugh at themselves and to make light of even the darkest predicaments. It is this indomitable spirit, fierce courage and irrepressible enjoyment of life that make their letters so powerful, eloquent and entertaining.
I had letters from you & the Lady* & Henderson** today, wouldn’t it be dread if one had a) no sisters b) sisters who didn’t write.
Deborah to Diana, 21 July 1965
* Nancy
** Jessica
ONE 1925–1933
The Mitford children in 1921: Unity, Pamela, Deborah, Tom, Nancy, Jessica and Diana.
There are few letters to record the Mitford sisters’ childhood and early youth, and such letters as they did write were mostly to their mother and father. Nor are there many letters dating back to the eight years covered in this section. By 1925, only Nancy, aged twenty – one, and Pamela, aged eighteen, had gone out into the world; the four youngest children were still in the nursery or schoolroom. Nancy’s main family correspondent at the time was her brother Tom, and Pamela – who confided mostly in Diana – was the least prolific writer of the sisters.
When the letters begin, the family had been living for six years at Asthall Manor, a seventeenth-century house in the Cotswolds, which the sisters’ father, Lord Redesdale, had bought when he sold Batsford Park, a rambling Victorian pile that he had inherited in 1916 and could not afford to keep up. Before the First World War, David Redesdale, or ‘Farve’ as he was known to his children, lived in London where he worked as office manager for The Lady, the magazine founded by his father-in-law. Life in the country was far better suited to this unbookish, unsociable man, whose happiest moments were spent by the Windrush, a trout river that ran past Asthall, or in the woods where he watched his young pheasants hatch. Unluckily for his family, country sports did not exhaust his energies and Asthall, which the children loved, was not to his liking. In 1926, they moved to Swinbrook House in Oxfordshire, a grim, ungainly edifice that Lord Redesdale had built on top of a hill near Swinbrook village. All the sisters except Deborah, who was six when they moved, disliked the new house, which was cold, draughty and impractical. Worst of all, unlike Asthall where the library had been in a converted barn some distance from the house and where the children were left undisturbed, there was no room at Swinbrook that they could call their own. The younger children found some warmth and privacy in a heated linen cupboard, later immortalized in Nancy’s novels as the ‘Hons’ cupboard’, while the older children had to share the drawing room or sit in their small bedrooms. Lord Redesdale was hurt by the family’s dislike of his dream project and began to spend more time at 26 Rutland Gate, a large London house overlooking Hyde Park that he had bought when Asthall was sold.
The sisters were in awe of their father. Strikingly handsome, with the brilliant blue eyes that passed down to his children, he was kind-hearted, jovial and the source of much of the fun that was had in the family. Deborah remembered him as ‘charming, brilliant without being clever’ and uproariously funny when in a good mood. She wrote that when he and Nancy started sparring they were better than anything she had ever seen on stage, ‘a pair of comedians of the first order’. But he could also be impatient and had a violent temper. The smallest transgression – a child spilling her food or being a minute late – could send him into a towering rage. His anger was all the more alarming for being unpredictable: he would turn with sudden fury on one of his daughters and then, for no apparent reason, decide to single out another. Their way of standing up to him, and of drawing his unwrathful attention, was to catch their father in one of his sunnier moods and tease him, which he took in good part. Jessica used to call him ‘the Old Sub-Human’ and pretend to measure his skull for science or would gently shake his hand when he was drinking a cup of tea to give him ‘palsy practice’ for when he grew old. Nancy’s caricature of him in her first novel, Highland Fling, as the jingoistic, hot-tempered General Murgatroyd – a precursor of the formidable Uncle Matthew in her later novels – was an effective way of reducing this larger-than-life figure to less alarming dimensions. As they grew up, the sisters rarely seem to have resented Farve and looked back on his autocratic eccentricities with affectionate amusement. The inclination to hero – worship is foreshadowed in their relationship with their father; like the other powerful men who were to come into their lives, he could do no wrong.
Their resentment – and that of Nancy and Jessica in particular – against the perceived shortcomings of their upbringing was reserved for their mother. In contrast to her moody, volatile husband, Sydney, or ‘Muv’ as her children called her, was cool and detached. Her own mother had died when she was seven years old and at the age of fourteen she had taken on the responsibility of running her father’s household. This had taught her financial prudence and to be a good manager – qualities that came in useful later when raising a family of seven on never quite enough money – but it also created a certain rigidity in her attitude to her children when they were growing up; an inflexibility that fuelled her daughters’ rebellious behaviour and their desire to shock.
From her father, Lady Redesdale had inherited definite opinions about health and diet, believing that the ‘good body’ would heal itself more effectively without the intervention of doctors or medicine. An early campaigner against refined sugar and white flour, she made sure that her children ate only wholemeal bread, baked to her recipe. Physically undemonstrative, she rarely exhibited outward signs of maternal warmth and seldom hugged or cuddled her daughters, who had to compete fiercely for the scarce resource of her attention. In ‘Blor’, an essay on her childhood, Nancy described her mother as living ‘in a dream world of her own’, detached to the point of neglect. In her fictional portrait of her as Aunt Sadie, she depicted a more sympathetic character but one that was nevertheless remote and disapproving. But the aloofness that some of her daughters complained of also had its positive side, enabling their mother to remain calm in the face of an unpredictable husband and to deal impartially with six boisterous and constantly feuding girls (her ambition had been to have seven boys). She was also fair, principled, direct, selfless and honest to the point of innocence. As the sisters grew up and their escapades sent their mother reeling from one calamity to the next, her unshakeable loyalty and acceptance of their choices in life showed that she cared for her daughters very much indeed.
Like most girls of their class and generation, the sisters were educated at home. Lady Redesdale taught all her children until they were eight, after which the girls moved to the schoolroom to be instructed by governesses and Tom was sent away to boarding school. Nancy and Jessica blamed their mother for this lack of formal education, even though Lord Redesdale was just as opposed to sending his daughters to school. ‘Nothing would have induced him to waste money on anything so frivolous’, wrote Deborah. He also worried that they might develop thick calves from being made to play hockey. Neither parent believed that girls should be educated beyond basic literacy and regarded intellectual women as ‘rather dreadful’. The Redesdales’ views were not uncommon at the time but their children’s response was more unusual. Nancy’s bitterness at not having received what she considered a proper education was enduring and runs as a refrain throughout her correspondence. Jessica wrote that the dream of her childhood was to be allowed to go to school, and that her mother’s refusal to countenance it had burned into her soul.
It is questionable, however, whether the sisters would have been better educated had they gone away to school. At the time, fashionable establishments for girls taught social rather than intellectual skills, preparing pupils for marriage and the drawing-room rather than the workplace. When the Redesdales eventually allowed Nancy, at the age of sixteen, to go to Hatherop Castle, a small private school for girls from ‘suitable’ families, the mainly non-academic curriculum concentrated on music, dancing and French, whereas at home, the sisters were free to make use of their grandfather’s first-rate library and Nancy and Diana became bookworms at an early age. It was perhaps the boredom of being confined at home with only siblings for company that rankled with Jessica and Nancy as much as their lack of formal schooling. Not until they left home and had to earn a living – they were the only two sisters who did not marry rich men – did they have cause to view their rudimentary education as a handicap.
The age gap between the Mitford children meant that they formed almost two separate generations. In 1925, the year that opens this collection of letters, the older children, Nancy, Pamela, Tom and Diana, ranged between the ages of twenty-one and fifteen. The youngest three, Unity, Jessica and Deborah, were aged eleven, eight and five. Nancy had ‘come out’ when she was eighteen and had followed her first season as a debutante with three further years of weekend parties and balls. She had met the right people, made many friends and quite enjoyed herself, but she had failed to do the expected thing and find a husband. With very little money and no immediate prospects, she was living at home, taking out her frustration on her sisters. The three youngest looked up to her like a remote star: her vitality, cleverness and supreme funniness lit up the family atmosphere, as did her determination to turn everything into a joke, but she was too caustic and indiscreet to be the recipient of anyone’s confidences. In Unity’s copy of All About Everybody, a little book of printed questions that she asked her family and friends to fill in, Nancy put as her besetting sin ‘disloyalty’, a trait that could make her incomparably good company but an uncertain ally.
Nancy’s usual victim was Pamela, whose unguarded nature made her an obvious target for teasing. Diana, however, presented more of a challenge; she was fully Nancy’s intellectual equal, with just as determined a character, and was able to stand up to her sister’s bullying. Occasionally Nancy managed to exert her seniority and successfully torment her younger sister. When she was sixteen, she formed a company of Girl Guides, appointed herself captain and tried to make ten-year-old Diana salute her. On another occasion, she pretended to have heard the Redesdales discuss sending Diana to boarding school, an idea that filled her little sister with horror. But they both enjoyed reading, which drew them together, as did a similar sense of humour and a longing to escape the confinement of Swinbrook. As they grew up, they became, according to Diana, great friends. But underlying the friendship was a deep current of envy on Nancy’s part towards a younger sister who was already a great beauty and the instant centre of attention with the undergraduate friends that Nancy brought home. These feelings were exacerbated when Diana, aged eighteen, married the extremely rich and good-looking Bryan Guinness and became a sought-after London hostess.
Shortly before Diana’s engagement to Bryan in 1928, Pamela accepted a proposal of marriage from a neighbour of the Mitfords, Oliver Watney. The prospect of having two younger sisters married before she was may help to explain Nancy’s unwise decision to become unofficially engaged to Hamish St Clair-Erskine, a friend of Tom’s from Eton who was younger than her and homosexual. Her infatuation with Hamish dragged on for five unsatisfactory years, causing her a great deal of unhappiness. During this period she started to write her first articles for Vogue, and in 1930 was taken on as a regular contributor to cover social events for The Lady. This brought in a little pocket money, as did her first two novels, Highland Fling and Christmas Pudding, light satires on upper-class life that sketched out the world she would so successfully depict in her accomplished post-war novels.
Nancy used to say that the first three years of her life were perfect, ‘then a terrible thing happened, my sister Pamela was born’ which ‘threw me into a permanent rage for about 20 years’. Her affront at being supplanted in the nursery was compounded by an insensitive nanny who immediately shifted all her love and attention to the new baby. By the time Nancy was six and Pamela three, they might have overcome their differences and played together, had not Pamela contracted polio which affected her physical and mental development. She was in constant pain from an aching leg, and often tearful and sad. Her illness was doubtless a strain on Nancy: ‘you’ve got to be kind to Pam, she’s ill’, was dinned into her unceasingly. Instead of narrowing, as it normally would, the age gap between the two sisters widened. Pamela, who was the least able to defend herself, became Nancy’s scapegoat. She learnt to keep her head down and seems never to have shown any ill will towards her tormentor. She loved jokes as much as the rest of the family, and laughed about her own limitations, but she refused to retaliate or compete in the teasing. Her sisters nicknamed her ‘Woman’ because, like a symbolic character in a medieval Mystery Play, she epitomized the womanly virtues of simplicity and goodness. From her mother, she inherited dignity, common sense and the talent for making a comfortable home; from her father, a love of the countryside, where she was at her happiest. In 1925, when these letters begin, Pamela was a shy seventeen-year-old debutante, confiding to Diana her nervousness about going out into the world.
Unlike Nancy, who was a late developer and drew out her adolescence well into her twenties, Diana, by the time she was thirty, had been twice married, given birth to four sons and experienced the most eventful decade of her life. When these letters begin, she was a precocious fifteen-year-old, dreaming of independence. Her closest companion in the family, both in age and interests, was Tom, and when he was home for the holidays the two were inseparable. Diana admired her brother’s musical and intellectual talents and delighted in the company of his sophisticated friends. These glimpses of a world of art, music and intelligent conversation increased her yearning to escape the restrictive family atmosphere. The 1926 General Strike, sparked off by the grim working conditions in the coal mines, made a deep impression on her, kindling her social conscience and fostering a lifelong interest in politics. Whereas Nancy treated the national emergency as something of a joke and disguised herself as a tramp to frighten Pamela who was running a canteen serving food to strike-breaking lorry drivers, Diana felt the injustice of the miners’ situation acutely. Her interest in politics was also fuelled by visits to Chartwell, Winston Churchill’s family home in Kent. Churchill’s wife, Clementine, was a first cousin of Lord Redesdale, and two of the Churchill children, Diana and Randolph, were much the same age as Tom and Diana.
In 1927, Diana spent six months studying in Paris, where she said she learnt more than in six years of lessons at Asthall. For the first time in her life she was free of the strict chaperoning imposed by her parents and of having to jockey for position among her sisters. The painter Paul-César Helleu, a friend of Thomas Gibson-Bowles, was an important influence during her visit. He took her to the Louvre and Versailles, introduced her to his artist friends and admired her looks, making her aware for the first time of the effect of her exceptional beauty. When she returned to Swinbrook, Diana was more impatient than ever to get away from its schoolroom atmosphere. The following year, at the end of her first season, a proposal of marriage gave her the chance to escape. Bryan Guinness, the sensitive and diffident elder son of Lord Moyne and heir to a brewing fortune, fell deeply in love with her. A poet and novelist, Bryan was part of a group of Nancy’s Oxford friends that included Evelyn Waugh, John Betjeman, Roy Harrod, Harold Acton, James Lees-Milne, Henry Yorke and Robert Byron, young men whose interests represented everything that Diana aspired to. She and Bryan were married in January 1929 and divided their time between London and Biddesden, a fine eighteenth-century house in Wiltshire, where Diana was able to give free rein to her talent for decorating and entertaining. Unity, Jessica and Deborah often went to stay with the young couple and in 1930 Pamela settled in a nearby cottage to run the Biddesden farm. Nancy was a less frequent visitor. Caught up in her unhappy affair with Hamish and very short of money, it was galling to see Diana settled in a splendid house, surrounded by a loving husband and two healthy babies. However, the picture of happiness that Diana and Bryan presented was not as bright as it appeared. Although they were undoubtedly in love, there was a basic incompatibility between them that soon made itself felt. Increasingly, Bryan wanted to stay at home with only his family for company while Diana, who was eager to travel and fill her house with friends, found this domesticity all too reminiscent of the life she had so recently managed to escape.
In the spring of 1932, Diana sat next to Sir Oswald Mosley at a dinner party in London. The former Conservative MP and Labour Minister, whose New Party had been resoundingly defeated in the previous year’s general election, was preparing to break with parliamentary politics and launch the British Union of Fascists (BUF). Diana fell under the spell of this seasoned womanizer and compelling talker who seemed to her to have all the answers to Britain’s problems. In Mosley, she found the combination of a powerful man she could love and a cause to which she could dedicate herself, a pattern that Unity and Jessica – and to a lesser extent Nancy – were to conform to in their different ways. Mosley was married and made it clear that he would not leave his wife. Undeterred, and encouraged by Mosley, Diana decided to divorce Bryan in order to be available for her lover whenever he could spare the time from politics, family and the other women in his life. By throwing in her lot with Mosley, Diana was prepared to sacrifice her social position, distance herself from her beloved Tom, who disapproved of her leaving Bryan, alienate her parents – who refused to allow her two youngest sisters to visit her – and even risk losing her sons. She once wrote of her decision, ‘I probably ought to have behaved differently but I never regretted it’. Of the family, only Nancy supported Diana’s choice and became a regular visitor to the house in Eaton Square that Diana took after her divorce. It was no doubt easier for Nancy to be close to her sister when she was unpopular than when she was at the height of her success.
Unity was described by her mother as a sensitive, introverted little girl, who used to slip under the dining-room table if anything was said at meals that upset or embarrassed her. By the time she was eight, and had graduated to the schoolroom, she had become naughty and disruptive, her shyness concealed beneath a tough shell of sullen defiance. More solemn than her sisters, she lacked their quick wit and enjoyed practical rather than verbal jokes. In an effort to stand out, she behaved outrageously. When she was fourteen, partly because she was so difficult at home and partly because she wanted to go away, Lady Redesdale decided to make an exception among her daughters and sent Unity to boarding school. The three establishments she attended were no more successful at controlling her than her governesses had been and she was expelled from all of them. In 1932, she followed her older sisters and was launched into society: ‘a huge and a rather alarming debutante’, according to Jessica. Social life bored her and she had not grown out of the need to draw attention to herself. The only party she enjoyed was a Court ball, where she distinguished herself by stealing Buckingham Palace writing paper. In early 1933, to fill in the months before another Season, she enrolled at a London art school. Diana’s house in Eaton Square was forbidden to the two youngest Mitfords because of the scandal of her divorce and involvement with Mosley, but Unity, freed from parental supervision, was able to call on her sister whenever she liked. On one of her visits she met Mosley and became an instant convert to his ideas. The fascist cause had the attraction of being disapproved of by her parents, as well as providing her with the thrill of being connected to its charismatic leader. For Diana, who at the time was cut off from most of her family, Unity’s enthusiastic support was reassuring.
