the steps of 1a Upper Wimpole Street, to
5 St James’s Square
London
13 July, 1932
My dearest Wren,
Oh how I miss you! Though I must say last weekend at Endsleigh was nothing short of divine. You are the most accomplished hostess — I don’t know how you managed to get Lord Rothermere to sing ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’ without his teeth but it was too killing! It’s impossible to imagine him advising the PM after one has seen his gums. And Jock Witney, who shall be hereafter known as the Rover, cheated miserably during the midnight egg-and-spoon race. He tripped me mercilessly and those roving hands of his are most tiresome. I’ll bet he’s every bit as foul in business as he is on the field. Of course your cook is so good, which makes all the difference. Such a quantity of fresh oysters — the sheer extravagance! But I do wonder about your lady’s maid. I know she’s local and very young but there seems something amiss with her; as if she’s watching all the time. Do keep an eye on your jewellery.
And the most wonderful thing is you look so well, darling. Healthy and relaxed and — dare I say it? — rounded! They say the third time is the luckiest and I feel certain this will be true for you. I know the whole thing has been torture and you’ve been so endlessly brave about your disappointments. Not the least because Muv will go on and on about feeding the blood and making a sticking place for it. She is so ceaselessly foul about blood. I can’t wait until we can go properly shopping for furniture and new curtains — I shall be the most spoiling aunt ever!
Now, what news of London? Well, Pinky has taken to going round with Gloria Manning, who has hair like a poodle and the eyes of a frog. I cut him dead at Grosvenor House on Saturday, but really, there are only so many times a man should be allowed to propose — every time Pinky has a glass of champagne he goes down on one knee. It’s just tiresome. Harpers Bazaar have printed pictures of me dancing at Four Hundred, looking just this side of hysterical, which I cannot decide is good or not. And Cecil wants me to pose for him again — Venus. I can’t tell you how bored I am already by it. But he’s hounding me; says it will be novel and daring. I’m tired of people taking my photograph. I feel like a national monument. It is incredibly overrated to be a ‘beauty’. Especially as people feel as if they have the right to stare at you openly and say anything they like to your face. I was outside Wilton’s the other day when two fat American women walked right up to me, gave me the once-over and then declared loudly in those foghorn voices of theirs, ‘Well, I don’t see what all the fuss is about!’ I felt I should die from mortification and rage. If Anne hadn’t been there, I’m certain I would’ve run after them.
Anne is so lovely. And I admire her taking her own flat. She works in a bookshop just off Piccadilly doing accounts and posting out orders, which sounds too dull but she says is blissful. I fear she’s becoming a communist — she’s in a fever over the Spanish and their new Republic. Keeps calling it the dawn of a new age, though to be honest, it feels very much like the same old age to me. Her fiancé Paul is some sort of big cheese in the movement — that is if communists are allowed to be big cheeses. He wears nothing but black and brown, with a little red kerchief around his neck, which I suppose he needs when he’s out tilling the soil and must wipe the sweat from his noble brow. And he never speaks to me directly, but only refers to me in the third person as the ‘decadent bourgeoisie’, which is not as endearing as it sounds. Anne spends all her time apologising to me for him, and to him for me. I wouldn’t mind so much only I know he went to Eton and his father is a peer.
As for me, I wander lonely as a cloud! Mrs Digby Smith is having a masquerade ball for Esme’s twenty-first tonight and I’m going as
5 St James’s Square
London
13 July, 1932
My dearest Wren,
Oh how I miss you! Though I must say last weekend at Endsleigh was nothing short of divine. You are the most accomplished hostess — I don’t know how you managed to get Lord Rothermere to sing ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’ without his teeth but it was too killing! It’s impossible to imagine him advising the PM after one has seen his gums. And Jock Witney, who shall be hereafter known as the Rover, cheated miserably during the midnight egg-and-spoon race. He tripped me mercilessly and those roving hands of his are most tiresome. I’ll bet he’s every bit as foul in business as he is on the field. Of course your cook is so good, which makes all the difference. Such a quantity of fresh oysters — the sheer extravagance! But I do wonder about your lady’s maid. I know she’s local and very young but there seems something amiss with her; as if she’s watching all the time. Do keep an eye on your jewellery.
And the most wonderful thing is you look so well, darling. Healthy and relaxed and — dare I say it? — rounded! They say the third time is the luckiest and I feel certain this will be true for you. I know the whole thing has been torture and you’ve been so endlessly brave about your disappointments. Not the least because Muv will go on and on about feeding the blood and making a sticking place for it. She is so ceaselessly foul about blood. I can’t wait until we can go properly shopping for furniture and new curtains — I shall be the most spoiling aunt ever!
Now, what news of London? Well, Pinky has taken to going round with Gloria Manning, who has hair like a poodle and the eyes of a frog. I cut him dead at Grosvenor House on Saturday, but really, there are only so many times a man should be allowed to propose — every time Pinky has a glass of champagne he goes down on one knee. It’s just tiresome. Harpers Bazaar have printed pictures of me dancing at Four Hundred, looking just this side of hysterical, which I cannot decide is good or not. And Cecil wants me to pose for him again — Venus. I can’t tell you how bored I am already by it. But he’s hounding me; says it will be novel and daring. I’m tired of people taking my photograph. I feel like a national monument. It is incredibly overrated to be a ‘beauty’. Especially as people feel as if they have the right to stare at you openly and say anything they like to your face. I was outside Wilton’s the other day when two fat American women walked right up to me, gave me the once-over and then declared loudly in those foghorn voices of theirs, ‘Well, I don’t see what all the fuss is about!’ I felt I should die from mortification and rage. If Anne hadn’t been there, I’m certain I would’ve run after them.
Anne is so lovely. And I admire her taking her own flat. She works in a bookshop just off Piccadilly doing accounts and posting out orders, which sounds too dull but she says is blissful. I fear she’s becoming a communist — she’s in a fever over the Spanish and their new Republic. Keeps calling it the dawn of a new age, though to be honest, it feels very much like the same old age to me. Her fiancé Paul is some sort of big cheese in the movement — that is if communists are allowed to be big cheeses. He wears nothing but black and brown, with a little red kerchief around his neck, which I suppose he needs when he’s out tilling the soil and must wipe the sweat from his noble brow. And he never speaks to me directly, but only refers to me in the third person as the ‘decadent bourgeoisie’, which is not as endearing as it sounds. Anne spends all her time apologising to me for him, and to him for me. I wouldn’t mind so much only I know he went to Eton and his father is a peer.
As for me, I wander lonely as a cloud! Mrs Digby Smith is having a masquerade ball for Esme’s twenty-first tonight and I’m going as
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