Nancy Mitford (34 page)

Nancy’s will to survive—what philosophers would call her Life-Force—was evidently
powerful
, while she must have realized that she was condemned and no doctors could save her. All they could do was to try and alleviate her suffering. For the final diagnosis was Hodgkin’s
disease
, the same which was to kill President Pompidou.

‘Keep in touch’—how many of Nancy’s letters ended with these poignant words. When she had not the strength or the desire to see friends for fear of harrowing them by the spectacle of her agony, she wrote more and more letters in progressively weaker calligraphy, petitions for news, pathetic substitutes for conversation.

In spite of the strong sedatives her mind remained lucid. So long as she could work she needed periods of seclusion, but when it was forced upon her she missed the pleasures of social intercourse, of intelligent and amusing conversation. Her only real happiness was with her
sisters
and ‘the Colonel’, but she was afraid of depressing and boring them. Much as they loved her they had their own lives to lead. No sisters could have been more tenderly devoted: they gave her all the time they could spare. Her sister Diana lived within convenient distance by motor at Orsay in the Chevreuse valley, some 90 kilometres from Paris, and it was her
misfortune
as Nancy’s chief link with the outside world to witness almost day by day the desolating stages of Nancy’s decline. Her other sisters Pam and Debo also took turns to tend her when the professional nurse was unavailable. Jessica made the long journey from California for a final
glimpse. Nancy had floated so lightly on the crest of the wave that it was terrible for them to watch her sink by such slow degrees.

Nancy, who had loved life so intensely and communicated her joy to a myriad readers besides her coterie of friends, left it peacefully on 30th June, 1973, worn out by her cruel illness. At least she was granted one consolation. ‘How I hate hospitals and hope to be allowed to die here,’ she had written. She had always dreaded becoming an incubus to her sisters and friends.

Her faithful friend the Colonel was the last person to see her alive. Passing through Versailles and propelled by a strong presentiment, he had called at 4 rue d’Artois that very morning. Though Nancy appeared to be unconscious he could observe the shadow of a smile on her
features
, as if she were aware of his presence.

Her sister Diana wrote: ‘She would have been such a marvellous sharp old lady, dealing out snubs and jokes to new generations. Her life seems almost too sad to contemplate, despite great successes with the books. And the end of it this cruel illness.’

Perhaps deep down below the surface her life was sad, but she had the courage to banish melancholy and all that was life-diminishing. Had Falstaff known her he would have said: she was not only gay in herself, but the cause that gaiety was in other men. As Anne Thackeray Ritchie wrote of the author of Our Village: ‘Certainly few human beings were ever created more fit for this present world, and more capable of admiring and enjoying its beauties, than Miss Mitford,’ and unlike her estimable namesake, Nancy was beautiful herself.

A short list of French words

Above all I wish to express my profound gratitude to the Duchess of Devonshire, to the Hon. Lady Mosley and the Hon. Mrs. Derek Jackson, who have shown me every sort of generosity and helped me to sort out Nancy Mitford’s letters preserved at Chatsworth. Without their bountiful co-operation this biographical memoir could not have been
written
. My particular thanks are also due to Mr. Heywood and Lady Anne Hill: the former transcribed excerpts from Nancy Mitford’s letters in his possession, lent me the
manuscript
of her
Tour de France
sketch, and both have supplied me with relevant anecdotes; to Mr. and Mrs. Handasyde Buchanan, who have also supplied me with letters and anecdotes of Nancy as a bookseller; to Mr. and Mrs. James Lees-Milne for putting a large selection of letters at my disposal and for allowing me to reprint a vivid recollection from Mr.
Lees-Milne’s
Another Self
; and to ‘the Colonel’ for his moral support. I hope the many kind friends who provided me with letters and reminiscences, or both, will excuse me if I waive protocol and name them in alphabetical order, though some should be distinguished by stars, as in a Michelin guide, for taking so much trouble. Besides those above mentioned my warm thanks are due to Sir Cecil Beaton, M. Jacques Brousse, Mr. Donald Darling, Mme. Rita Essayan, Mme. Romain Gary (Lesley Blanch), Dr. Henry W. Gillespie, Mr Geoffrey Gilmour, Lord Gladwyn (for allowing me to quote from his
Memoirs
), and Lady Gladwyn, the Hon. Desmond Guinness (for the photo graphs of Nancy’s wedding and William Acton’s portrait), Mr. Hamish Hamilton, Lady Harrod, Sir Hugh Jackson, M. Philippe Jullian, Lord Kinross. Mr. Valentine Lawford. Mr. Patrick Leigh Fermor, Prince and Princess Rupert Loewenstein, Mr. Roger Machell, Mr. Robin McDouall, Mr. Peter Mitchell, the Hon. Jessica Mitford (Mrs. R. Treuhaft) and Victor Gollancz Ltd. for
permission
to quote from her
Hons and Rebels,
Mr. Raymond Mortimer C.B.E., Sir Oswald Mosley (for permitting me to quote from
My Life
), Mr. Brian Pearce, Mr. Stuart Preston, Mr. David Pryce-Jones, Mr. Peter Quennell, Mrs. John Sutro, Mr. Christopher Sykes, Professor Hugh Thomas, and Mr. Mogens Tvede. As I did not aim at a definitive
biography
I made no application to the Press, though this might have produced a richer harvest. In most instances Nancy Mitford’s underlinings, capitalizations, gallicisms and punctuation have been respect fully retained. I am also indebted to my good friend and publisher Hamish Hamilton and to his partner Roger Machell for their fraternal encouragement.