Read Online Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Mitford
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it never, never succeeds. Even Englishmen, who are used to it, don’t like it, after a bit. Of course no Frenchman would put up with it for a day. So they go on reshuffling.”
“They’re very nasty ladies, aren’t they?” I said, having formed that opinion the night before.
“Not at all, poor things. They are
les femmes du monde, voilà tout
, I love them, so easy to get on with. Not nasty at all. And I love
la mère
Montdore. How amusing she is, with her snobbishness. I am very much for snobs, they are always so charming to me.”
“And Lord Montdore—and Polly?”
“Lord Montdore is a terrible old hypocrite, very English, very nice, but Polly now …! There is something I don’t quite understand about Polly. Perhaps she does not have a properly organized sex life, yes, I expect it is that. She seems so dreamy. I must see what I can do for her—only there’s not much time.” He looked at his watch.
I said primly that very few well-brought-up English girls of nineteen have a properly organized sex life. Mine was not organized at all, I knew, but I did not seem to be so specially dreamy.
“But what a beauty, even in that terrible dress. When she has had a little love she may become one of the beauties of our age. It’s not certain; it never is with Englishwomen. She may cram a felt hat on her head and become a Lady Patricia Dougdale. Everything depends on the lover. So this Boy Dougdale, what about him?”
“Stupid,” I said, meaning, really, “stchoopid.”
“But you are impossible, my dear. Nasty ladies, stupid men—you really must try and like people more or you’ll never get on in this world.”
“How d’you mean, get on?”
“Well, get all those things like husbands and fiancés, and get on with them. They are what really matter in a woman’s life, you know.”
“And children?” I said.
He roared with laughter. “Yes, yes, of course, children. Husbands first, then children, then fiancés, then more children.… Then you have to live near the Parc Monceau because of the nannies. It’sa whole programme having children, I can tell you, especially if you happen to prefer the Left Bank, as I do.”
I did not understand one word of all this.
“Are you going to be a Bolter,” he said, “like your mother?”
“No, no,” I said. “A tremendous sticker.”
“Really? I’m not quite sure.”
Soon, too soon for my liking, we found ourselves back at the house.
“Porridge,” said the Duke, again looking at his watch.
The front door opened upon a scene of great confusion. Most of the house party, some in tweeds and some in dressing gowns, were assembled in the hall, as were various outdoor and indoor servants, while a village policeman, who, in the excitement of the moment had brought his bicycle in with him, was conferring with Lord Montdore. High above our heads, leaning over the balustrade in front of Niobe, Lady Montdore, in a mauve satin wrap, was shouting at her husband:
“Tell him we must have Scotland Yard down at once, Montdore. If he won’t send for them I shall ring up the Home Secretary myself. Most fortunately I have the number of his private line. In fact, I think I’d better go and do it now.”
“No, no, my dear, please not. An Inspector is on his way, I tell you.”
“Yes, I daresay, but how do we know it’s the very best Inspector? I think I’d better get on to my friend. I think he’d be hurt with me if I didn’t, the dear thing. Always so anxious to do what he can.”
I was rather surprised to hear Lady Montdore speak so affectionately of a member of the Labour Government, this not being the attitude of other grown-ups, in my experience, but when I came to know her better I realized that power was a positive virtue in her eyes and that she automatically liked those who were invested with it.
My companion, with that look of concentration which comes over French faces when a meal is in the offing, did not wait to hear any of this. He made a bee line
“They’re very nasty ladies, aren’t they?” I said, having formed that opinion the night before.
“Not at all, poor things. They are
les femmes du monde, voilà tout
, I love them, so easy to get on with. Not nasty at all. And I love
la mère
Montdore. How amusing she is, with her snobbishness. I am very much for snobs, they are always so charming to me.”
“And Lord Montdore—and Polly?”
“Lord Montdore is a terrible old hypocrite, very English, very nice, but Polly now …! There is something I don’t quite understand about Polly. Perhaps she does not have a properly organized sex life, yes, I expect it is that. She seems so dreamy. I must see what I can do for her—only there’s not much time.” He looked at his watch.
I said primly that very few well-brought-up English girls of nineteen have a properly organized sex life. Mine was not organized at all, I knew, but I did not seem to be so specially dreamy.
“But what a beauty, even in that terrible dress. When she has had a little love she may become one of the beauties of our age. It’s not certain; it never is with Englishwomen. She may cram a felt hat on her head and become a Lady Patricia Dougdale. Everything depends on the lover. So this Boy Dougdale, what about him?”
“Stupid,” I said, meaning, really, “stchoopid.”
“But you are impossible, my dear. Nasty ladies, stupid men—you really must try and like people more or you’ll never get on in this world.”
“How d’you mean, get on?”
“Well, get all those things like husbands and fiancés, and get on with them. They are what really matter in a woman’s life, you know.”
“And children?” I said.
He roared with laughter. “Yes, yes, of course, children. Husbands first, then children, then fiancés, then more children.… Then you have to live near the Parc Monceau because of the nannies. It’sa whole programme having children, I can tell you, especially if you happen to prefer the Left Bank, as I do.”
I did not understand one word of all this.
“Are you going to be a Bolter,” he said, “like your mother?”
“No, no,” I said. “A tremendous sticker.”
“Really? I’m not quite sure.”
Soon, too soon for my liking, we found ourselves back at the house.
“Porridge,” said the Duke, again looking at his watch.
The front door opened upon a scene of great confusion. Most of the house party, some in tweeds and some in dressing gowns, were assembled in the hall, as were various outdoor and indoor servants, while a village policeman, who, in the excitement of the moment had brought his bicycle in with him, was conferring with Lord Montdore. High above our heads, leaning over the balustrade in front of Niobe, Lady Montdore, in a mauve satin wrap, was shouting at her husband:
“Tell him we must have Scotland Yard down at once, Montdore. If he won’t send for them I shall ring up the Home Secretary myself. Most fortunately I have the number of his private line. In fact, I think I’d better go and do it now.”
“No, no, my dear, please not. An Inspector is on his way, I tell you.”
“Yes, I daresay, but how do we know it’s the very best Inspector? I think I’d better get on to my friend. I think he’d be hurt with me if I didn’t, the dear thing. Always so anxious to do what he can.”
I was rather surprised to hear Lady Montdore speak so affectionately of a member of the Labour Government, this not being the attitude of other grown-ups, in my experience, but when I came to know her better I realized that power was a positive virtue in her eyes and that she automatically liked those who were invested with it.
My companion, with that look of concentration which comes over French faces when a meal is in the offing, did not wait to hear any of this. He made a bee line
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