I have been writing every day, mostly about things that I can’t write about on the Internet, so I’ll write about what I’m reading right now, which is a book of letters between and among the six Mitford sisters (Nancy, Pamela, Diana, Unity, Jessica, and Deborah, in that order).
First of all, let me address the proverbial elephant in the room, and he’s a big one. It’s impossible to read about the MItfords, or to read their correspondence, without being shocked by their politics. Diana Mitford and Unity Mitford were Nazis. And I’m not calling them Nazis in the Godwin’s Law sense of the word. They were not Nazi sympathizers. They were not old-guard aristos with hard-right political leanings. They were not fussy English ladies who secretly admired Mussolini because he made the Italian trains run on time. They were Nazis. During the mid-1930s, Diana Mitford and Unity Mitford moved to Germany and joined the Nazi party, and their letters from Berlin were filled with praise of their beloved Fuhrer, whom they knew personally because of course they did (in all fairness, the Mitfords knew everyone). Unity attempted suicide (unsuccessfully) when Britain and Germany went to war in 1939. Diana and her husband Sir Oswald Mosley, head of the British Union of Fascists, served some time (not enough) in prison when they returned to England.
Jessica (“Decca”) Mitford was on the other hand a Communist who lived in the United States and worked in support of the civil rights movement. The sisters’ letters contain breezy racist comments about Decca’s Black (“colored” or “Negro”) friends and associates. Even Deborah (“Debo”), the youngest and (seemingly) nicest of the Mitfords, sister-in-law of John F. Kennedy’s sister Kathleen, was wary of visiting Decca because she feared that she wouldn’t know how to behave with her sister’s decidedly non-white friends.
I suppose you could grant the Mitford sisters very wide latitude, acknowledging that they were a product of their time (early 20th century) and place (England) and class (upper); but even within those parameters, they were still occasionally rather horrid (Nancy mostly, who had quite a mean streak), sometimes snobbish and classist and racist (many examples), and even flat-out monstrous and evil (Nazis, for crying out loud). So why do they still have such appeal? Why do people still read their letters and their books and memoirs? Why do I want to read ever more about them, even though I feel that I already have a solid level of Mitford knowledge?
Part of it is my unwavering fascination with the early to mid 20th century. I love to read anything, fiction or nonfiction (especially nonfiction), that addresses this period of history. So much good and bad in just a few short decades. So much progress, alongside so much resistance to same. So much potential, realized and unrealized. So many ways in which this short period of time yanked the world kicking and screaming into modernity, for better and for worse. So much upheaval and violence and terror, juxtaposed with so much prosperity and peace and ease of life for a few people with the promise (largely unfulfilled) of the same for many more. It’s the largely unfulfilled part that haunts me. Was the mid to late 20th century the best that we could do in terms of ensuring the best possible life for the greatest possible number of people? Because it’s been downhill since the turn of this century, and no sign that the ever-smaller group of people in power in the world are motivated to change this.
That’s the macro. The macro is the huge stage on which the Mitfords lived their pretty huge lives as friends or at least acquaintances with all of the people who built 20th century Europe and England and America in all their glory and horror. To read the Mitfords’ letters is to read history, with first-hand eyewitness insight that historians can only dream of.
But it’s the micro that’s the real draw. The personal and family lives of the six sisters, their multiple residences all over Europe and America (none of them ever seemed to stay in one house for more than a few months at a time), their servants and their art and their estates and furnishings and gardens and food, their clothes (Nancy’s haute couture and Debo’s English tweeds), the books they read and the books they wrote, their incredibly rarefied social lives and friendships with heads of state (elected and crowned), renowned artists and writers, and pretty much all of English and European high society, make for endlessly interesting reading.
*****
One notable thing about the Mitfords is that although most of them never worked what we in 21st century America would consider a real job (two exceptions: Nancy worked in a bookstore in London before her success as a writer made her financially independent, and Jessica worked for the US government and then for various American Communist organizations and publications before she too became independently wealthy as a bestselling author), they were all very industrious. The Mitford sisters led lives of leisure, not laziness. They had household help (in one letter, Nancy complains of the hardship of having to make her own bed when her maid is on holiday) and were mostly free from scheduled work obligations, but they still worked quite hard. Nancy and Jessica were always on deadline; always writing something. Deborah, who married Andrew Cavendish and became Duchess of Devonshire when Andrew’s older brother (husband of JFK’s sister Kathleen) was killed in action in World War II, had to manage multiple estates, including Chatsworth, which was preserved thanks mostly to her efforts. Debo single handedly turned Chatsworth into a successful enterprise, complete with hotels and restaurants and shops, with thousands of paying guests every year. Diana was also a writer, though far less successful than Nancy and Jessica, and she continued to support her husband’s political career while managing multiple households. Pamela also dedicated herself to her high-profile husband’s career and households. All but Nancy (multiple miscarriages) and Unity had children and were very involved in their children’s lives and upbringing. Only Unity, left permanently brain-damaged by her suicide attempt, failed to accomplish anything notable before she died of meningitis at age 34.
*****
The Mitfords were and are endlessly interesting, stylish, privileged, gifted, and amusing. They were in turns and depending on the sister, beautiful, kind, thoughtful, brilliant; but also racist, elitist, snobbish, selfish, callously indifferent to other people, and even a bit mean at times. Diana was a loving and kind sister, devoted mother and wife, and loyal friend. Her letters are full of genuine concern for her family, her friends, and her servants, who were obviously devoted to her. In one letter, she writes about rushing to dress early in the morning so that she can deliver the news of her gardener’s son’s death (motorcycle accident) to the family before the police get to them. In another, she asks a friend to invite her long-time housekeeper and butler, an Irish Catholic married couple, to a reception to meet the Pope. Diana nursed Nancy through her last months, and Nancy was no picnic even when healthy. If you didn’t know that Diana was a Nazi, you’d think she was a saint.
Brilliant Nancy was a gifted writer and a person of great style and refinement, but she was also lonely, often unkind, and sometimes downright cruel. Jessica was the classic example of a social justice warrior who cares greatly about humanity in the abstract but is often oblivious to the feelings and needs of the actual people in her actual life. Debo was capable, hardworking, funny, and kind-hearted but also completely blind to the inherent rot and corruption at the heart of the British class system. Poor Unity was just a disaster, and having read some of her letters, I can’t help but think that her Nazism was really just a symptom of mental illness. Regarding the Nazism, there was no such excuse for Diana who was clearly of very sound mind.
Of all the sisters, only Pamela (who wrote the fewest letters) seemed to be completely and unreservedly loved by all of her sisters, almost all the time. No one ever complained about Pamela (nicknamed “Woman” because she was the only one of the six who had any enthusiasm for traditional feminine pursuits). There were shifting alliances and temporary coolnesses and even long-running estrangements (Diana and Jessica, who fell out over politics, obviously) between and among the other sisters. Pamela remained above all of that, except for one fight about a missing scrapbook. I myself would not even notice if a scrapbook went missing, but this was a big deal to the sisters who knew, late in life, that their letters and photographs would have some historical and cultural value.
*****
I was really tired last week. Tired, recovering from a slight non-COVID illness, and just out of sorts, I dragged myself out of the house early on Saturday morning, and I drove to Rockville High School to work my volunteer shift at the annual mulch sale. That was about the last thing that I wanted to do that day, but I signed up to work, and I do what I say I’m going to do. It wasn’t a hard job. I didn’t volunteer to deliver mulch or supervise student mulch-carriers. I volunteered to wrangle other volunteers, manning the check-in table where the kids checked in, picked up their wristbands and t-shirts, and then came back to pick up their student service forms so that they’ll get credit for their volunteer hours. An easy job on a sunny, not-too-cold day, amid pleasant company. All in all, it was nothing to complain about.
I thought about the Mitfords that morning, about what they would think about the life of an average middle class American woman. What would they think about our jobs and our households and our social lives? What would Nancy or Debo or even Decca who was for all intents and purposes an American, have thought about mulch sale? What would they have thought about friendship and acquaintanceship among suburban American mothers?
Well, I can easily guess what they would think about my early spring Saturday, at least the mulch sale part. I think that they would have been appalled at the idea of parents selling garden mulch to raise money for their children’s school. And I think they’d have been even more appalled at our clothes. Even Debo and Jessica, neither of whom were seen as fashion exemplars, would never have been seen in public or even in private wearing orange “So Mulch to Do” t-shirts over hoodies or turtlenecks or long-sleeved t-shirts and jeans. Come to think of it, their gardeners and household staff would also never have been seen in such garments. Diana Mitford probably wore better clothes when she was incarcerated at Holloway Prison. But externals aside, what would the Mitford sisters have thought about me and my friends and acquaintances?
Despite our technology and our modern conveniences, I think that the sisters would probably have considered us rather primitive. Most of us stay in one place all year round, with maybe a short vacation or overnight trip here or there. Most of us have one simple household, and a DIY approach to housekeeping. Most of us buy our mass-produced clothes off the rack. Our correspondence is electronic and our meals are of the quick and easy variety. We are masters of multi-tasking, experts at finding the most direct and utilitarian approach to every problem. Our lives are efficient and streamlined, often beautiful, but seldom elegant.
*****
I'm almost at the end of the book. The sisters continued to write to one another throughout their lives, and right now it's about 1990 in Mitford letter years. As always, the sisters remained close to the history makers and influencers of the day. Sometime in the mid ‘80s, Debo visited the US as a guest of the Smithsonian when she lent works of art for a major exhibit and she writes to Decca about sitting next to "a fellow named Shultz," who of course turns out to be Secretary of State George Shultz. In another letter she writes about a lovely family dinner cooked by Tony Richardson's daughter Natasha. The letters go all the way until 2003 so I’m looking forward to reading their reactions to the events of 1997, though by then Jessica and Pamela will already be dead.
At this point, all of the sisters are well aware of their fame and their place in history. They often mention saving letters and papers for posterity. In earlier letters, one or the other of the sisters would write a disingenuous “why won’t they leave one alone, so tiresome” complaint about journalists’ interest in the Mitford family. Later, though, the ever-insightful Diana not only acknowledges that their interest is understandable, but also admits that she herself would be jealous of the Mitford family if she hadn’t chanced to be part of it.
*****
It’s natural for people to compare their lives with those of others in the past or the present, and I’m sure that I am not the only middle-class American woman to compare the external trappings of my life to the external trappings of the Mitfords’ lives and to find my own life a bit lacking. I’m sure that I’m not the only modern woman who occasionally longs for elegance, beauty, style, charm, or whatever it is we think that people in the past had that we don’t have in our modern and streamlined and efficient and sometimes dull lives. But I know myself well enough to know that I was born in the right time and the right place. I know myself well enough now that I know how stupid it is that I feel a bit guilty that I don’t spend more time and effort on cooking and serving delicious meals and tending to my garden and dressing and presenting myself in a more stylish and elegant way. It’s stupid because if I did all of those things, even if I had the means in terms of time or money, I’d feel guilty about that, too. That’s just me.
*****
“It’s true my world is peopled by characters in books, & it’s a mystery how you, so interested in human nature, can do without it seen through the eyes of genius. But perhaps it’s clever nature at work which gave you a task far more important than just loving to read. Your fund of wonderful human sympathy is much more unselfish, in fact reading is selfish & would probably waste your time which you spend making life bearable for one & all. So in the end I applaud your choice. It is much cleverer to do than just to think.”
Diana wrote this to Deborah in a March 1998 letter. By 1998, Diana and Deborah were the only remaining sisters. Diana would live until 2003 leaving Deborah alone for the last 11 years of her life. As she grew old, Diana spent more of her time at home, reading and gardening and writing letters. Deborah was busy from morning to night, managing her many business interests, entertaining guests, attending Parliament openings and Order of the Garter investiture ceremonies and generally leading the ideal life of an aristocratic English lady, a life of privilege and noblesse oblige. Their late letters back and forth are all just as touching as this passage, filled with love and admiration and affection for one another. Both women had many friends, not to mention children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews and long-time household servants, all of whom make appearances in the letters. But it’s clear that Deborah and Diana were each other’s favorite people, and that both of them dreaded the inevitable–that one of them would soon be left alone without her sister, without the one person who knew her for her whole life.
*****
If I had to describe the Mitfords and their lives in one word, the only word that would suffice would be “complicated.” Like most of us, they contained multitudes of good and bad and in-between. They contained beauty and elegance and culture and refinement and love and kindness and good humor right next to meanness and class snobbery and racism and downright horrifying politics. If I had to judge them I suppose I’d have to judge them by the standards of their own time and place and not my own, but it’s not my place to judge them by any standards. It’s not my place to judge anyone.
*****
I finally finished the book. Deborah Mitford lived until 2014, but the famous Mitford sister letters ended in 2003 when Diana died. It’s time for a break from mid-century England and Europe, so I just started reading Chuck Klosterman’s The Nineties: A Book. I’m still in the past, but it’s the relatable, modern, American past. It’s the past that I remember and understand. I’ll be back to read more Mitfordiana, though. Novels, memoirs, social history, volumes of letters–a person could spend years with the Mitford sisters. Despite all, they are good company.
