Most of the subjects Nancy Mitford writes about in this collection of essays, articles, and reviews are not of primary interest to me, such as the modern fashions in clothes and the English Aristocracy. But I never wondered why I was reading about such things because the author herself consistently amuses, which I might have guessed would be the case from reading several of her novels. It’s not that she is an especially friendly author, and at times she goes quite into detail, such as in her critique of Carlyle’s book about Frederick the Great, but she has a biting wit and a sly sense of humor that combined with her idiosyncratic take on things causes the pages to turn for the better part intriguingly. My two favorite sections are her Paris Column in which she shrewdly observes the French, and her essay on Apsley Cherry-Garrard’s book The Worst Journey in the World about Captain Scott’s 1911 expedition to the South Pole. Writing in 1962, Mitford questions why with all the abundance of written material on their expedition she should bother adding to it. But all these years later, I had never heard of these early 20th century British explorers, and I was stunned and utterly fascinated by Mitford’s account of what they went through. Reading about their hardships was quite a long way from some of Mitford’s critiques in the early pages on English weddings and shooting parties. The first four entries are from 1929-30, when she was in her twenties. Mitford’s teasing is a bit over the top. It’s not to say that these entries are mean-spirited; but more just that in them she seems to be parading her wit. But thankfully very early on in the book we find ourselves in 1948, and Mitford’s voice has clearly matured. There are all sorts of little tidbits she offers up:
“However, since pearls lying in a museum only deteriorate …”
“Nothing shows the character of a town more clearly than the aspect and quantity of its bookshops … No town that I have ever seen has so many bookshops to the square mile as Paris. There seem to be two or three in every street.”
“A friendly concierge adds wonderfully to the amenities of life, and nobody who has lived in a house where there is one would willingly do without her again – I think personally that even a devil is better than no concierge at all.”
“Le Journal d’une femme de cinquante ans, by the Marquise de la Tour du Pin de Gouvernet, hitherto very difficult to come by, has just been reprinted. It is the most entertaining of the many memoirs written by aristocrats who survived the French Revolution.”
“Unfortunately, as every novelist knows, there is nothing so dull as goodness.”
“As far as I am concerned, all reading is for pleasure.”
I was interested to learn about her reading habits. When she was a girl, she read what was available to her in the family library, “French and English biography, history and belles lettres, with some German philosophy, out of my reach. There were no novels, no books of travel and very little poetry. I still read more biography, memoirs and letters than anything else.” Interesting coming from someone who is best known for her fiction. And she divulges her favorite book of all time, La Princesse de Cleves by Madame de La Fayette, which as it happens was also a favorite of her contemporary Somerset Maugham.
Mitford is on the defensive about the English language in modern society; she is worried that it is continuously being ruined. She also thinks that Proust, or any good book for that matter, should be read in its native tongue, and not to bother with translations. Some of the essays, like one on Carlyle’s book of Frederick the Great, or Cronin’s on Louis XIV, feel a bit long, perhaps because they feel just a bit pedestrian compared to the rest of the entries, in which Mitford’s prose engages due to her wit, charm, humor and idiosyncratic personality, all the same qualities which have led me to find her novels enjoyable.
The last fifteen pages of this 217-page book consist of her French Revolution diary from 1968 in which there was great political and social upheaval in Paris due to a worker’s strike. At the time Mitford was 63 years old. In her entry dated June 4 she writes, “I don’t think I’ve got the temperament of a diarist.” But her diary makes for some of the most touching parts of the book. The times are much different compared to the carefree days of the 1920’s - they sound rather like our own times – topsy turvy. And there can be traced in Mitford’s matter-of-fact diary a sense of bitterness toward a Parisian society which has lost its manners, and is being overrun by youth, who seem to think that anyone over thirty should be done away with. She writes, “If I am a conservative it is because I see so much worth conserving in French society. It seems a pity that all should have to go up in flames for the sake of a few reforms.” And she is unimpressed by the major news outlets of the day: “The wireless is terrifying. If the BBC were not always so utterly wrong about French affairs I would listen to it, but what is the good? They understand nothing.”
Mitford’s niece Charlotte Mosley edited this collection. She made many fine choices, but it would be interesting to see what she left out. What made the final cut covers a broad range of interests that make for a read as eccentric as its author. I wish there were more volumes of criticism by Nancy Mitford available than there currently are.