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Deborah Cavendish, nee Mitford, dies at the age of 94.
I read her autobiography a couple years back and found it jawdropping, and not in a good way. Thanks largely to her five larger than life sisters (Nancy, the novelist; Pamela, the rabbit breeder; Diana the "she's so charming we all have to overlook that she was a complete fascist; Unity, who fell in love with Hitler no really; Jessica, who ran off to the Spanish Civil War and then California and the civil rights movement) and her own aristocratic connections - she was, after all, a Duchess, and related by marriage to the Kennedys - Deborah Mitford met almost everyone who was anyone in the 20th century. Her autobiography has little things like, had tea with Hitler on Thursday, danced with Jack Kennedy on Saturday and chatted with Churchill on Sunday oh and now that I think about it Charles and Camilla and John Betjeman and Fred Astaire and....it goes on. A lot.
But what is jaw dropping about this is that if you believe Deborah, absolutely none of these people had anything interesting to say. Like, nothing.
That seems impossible. But then again, Deborah met many of these people through her sisters, and through the Kennedys, and here and there in her autobiography, I got the sense that she wanted to be remembered not just as one of the six Mitford sisters - a crushing legacy to be attached to - but as a person in her own right: as the woman who helped save the stately home of Cavendish and keep it in private hands. As the woman who welcomed everyone and everybody, regardless of political beliefs. And a woman who knew a lot about chickens. And so her autobiography focuses on that: on hospitality, on restoring an estate, and on chickens. And a number of famous people that she just happened to have tea with. And she could look at Chatsworth, and feel quite a bit of pride.
I read her autobiography a couple years back and found it jawdropping, and not in a good way. Thanks largely to her five larger than life sisters (Nancy, the novelist; Pamela, the rabbit breeder; Diana the "she's so charming we all have to overlook that she was a complete fascist; Unity, who fell in love with Hitler no really; Jessica, who ran off to the Spanish Civil War and then California and the civil rights movement) and her own aristocratic connections - she was, after all, a Duchess, and related by marriage to the Kennedys - Deborah Mitford met almost everyone who was anyone in the 20th century. Her autobiography has little things like, had tea with Hitler on Thursday, danced with Jack Kennedy on Saturday and chatted with Churchill on Sunday oh and now that I think about it Charles and Camilla and John Betjeman and Fred Astaire and....it goes on. A lot.
But what is jaw dropping about this is that if you believe Deborah, absolutely none of these people had anything interesting to say. Like, nothing.
That seems impossible. But then again, Deborah met many of these people through her sisters, and through the Kennedys, and here and there in her autobiography, I got the sense that she wanted to be remembered not just as one of the six Mitford sisters - a crushing legacy to be attached to - but as a person in her own right: as the woman who helped save the stately home of Cavendish and keep it in private hands. As the woman who welcomed everyone and everybody, regardless of political beliefs. And a woman who knew a lot about chickens. And so her autobiography focuses on that: on hospitality, on restoring an estate, and on chickens. And a number of famous people that she just happened to have tea with. And she could look at Chatsworth, and feel quite a bit of pride.
