- "First of July, 1966,
Chatsworth, Bakewell. "Darling Paddy, the two picture worms "of Christie's, David
Carrot and Bryan Sewell "were here revaluing the
drawings for insurance. "I can tell you no cabaret
has given such entertainment. "We went after dinner into the library, "and they opened the boxes and wrote "their idea of values
down on bits of paper. "Their faces and comments were so lovely. "Things that looked exactly the same to us "were marked up or down
with such huge differences, "and names of what sounded to us "like Italian hairdressers
were bandied about "till we were reeling." Good evening. (audience laughter) I'm Collin Bailey, the Associate Director and Peter Jay Sharp Chief Curator of The Frick Collection,
and I'm delighted to welcome such an extraordinary audience to the Frick this evening. Our director Anne Proule is traveling, in fact, is giving a
lecture in San Francisco, at the moment, and I know she regrets very much not being with us tonight. Because we are a small institution, we have provided seating
in the east gallery as overflow, and there
will be accommodation made in the garden courtyard for people who can stay, unfortunately we simply are chock-a-block full. It's a great honor for us to welcome back the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire to The Frick Collection. Her Grace's last visit was in 2002, when she published her much-admired "Counting My Chickens." Tonight, in conversation with her niece Charlotte Mosley, who is also the editor of her new book, "In Tearing Haste: "Letters Between Deborah Devonshire "and Patrick Leigh
Fermor," she will give us glimpses of her life at Chatsworth, and that of her close friend reporting from the far-flung corners of the globe. The letter I quoted gives you a sense of what is in the book. The vivid exchange between the Duchess and one of England's most
beloved travel writers, and a war hero, was first
published in England in 2008, and was brought
out here this fall by The New York Review of Books. After the lecture, there
will be a reception in the garden court, and a book signing, in which the Duchess of Devonshire will sign books for you. Please join us then. Tonight's conversation
is part of our series of talks on writers and artists sponsored by the Drue Heinz Trust. We are only sorry that Mrs. Heinz could not be with us here tonight. Born the honorable Deborah Mitford, the dowager duchess is the daughter of the second Baron Redesdale, and is the youngest and sole surviving of the six legendary Mitford sisters. In 1941, she married
Lord Andrew Covendish, and nine years later, he became the 11th Duke of Devonshire. The couple moved to his ancestral home, Chatsworth, in Devonshire, in 1959. Over 55 years, the duke
and duchess refurbished this enormous house, with its 297 rooms and 35,000 acres, and transformed it into a self-sustaining historic estate who welcomes over 600,000 visitors a year. It is also home to the duke and duchess, their three children,
and many grandchildren, some of whom are here tonight. Their passions for literature, the arts, and agriculture make Chatsworth a renowned center of
hospitality for artists, writers, politicians,
sportsmen, and people from all walks of life. Patrick Leigh Fermor and his wife Joan were at the heart of the
family's inner circle. The volley of entertaining letters between the correspondents gives a vivid picture of their worlds from dual perspectives. To Debo, the Duchess of Devonshire's, memorable description of
her visit to Washington to attend President
Kennedy's inauguration, Paddy, Patrick Leigh Fermor, responds from the top of the
highest village in Greece, bang on top of the Pindus Mountains, with an account about
his visit that almost tops hers in interest. These sharp juxtapositions of place, content, and style, give the book a wonderful, unexpected rhythm. Throughout, the virtuoso stylist praises the spontaneous
manner of the Duchess. "You do write a good
letter in that whiz-bang "clochette style of yours," he writes. And when she turns to
him for encouragement in starting a new book,
he tells her simply, "Let it infectiously rip." It was only in her 60s that the Duchess embarked on a writing career, to become one of the most prolific
of the Mitford sisters, publishing 12 books to date. She made Chatsworth accessible not only through the trust that she
and the Duke established, but through her beautifully illustrated personal history of the house, followed by books on
gardens, treasures, cookery, daily life, and books for children. After the death of her husband in 2004, Deborah Devonshire became
the Dowager Duchess, and moved to the nearby
vicarage, while her son and his family now occupy the house. She has continued to write, lately books reflecting on her life. Also making its US debut this month is her memoir, "Wait for Me," published by Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. The Frick's history overlaps at one point with Chatsworth. In April, 1914, the founder of our museum, Henry Clay Frick, lunched
at Devonshire house in Picadilly with the ninth
duke, Victor Cavendish, who remembered Frick as a nice old man, and very intelligent. Frick was then invited to Chatsworth, where, in addition to
paintings by Rembrandt and Memling, he was most taken by a large suite of
Gobelin tapestry furniture. The Duke was then selling
some of the treasures to pay taxes, and Mr. Frick
was furnishing his house on Fifth Avenue, where we are tonight. He bought the suite of 18th century tapestry-covered chairs and canape, and had them shipped over
during the first world war. Two of these armchairs
are here on the stage, awaiting the arrival of the
Dowager Duchess of Devonshire and Charlotte Mosley. Please join me in giving
them a very warm welcome. (audience applause) - There we are, thanks. Thank you. - Good evening. Debo, tonight we're going to talk about two books that have just come out here, "In Tearing Haste," and
"Wait for Me," your memoir. But let's start with your memoir. Why did you call it "Wait for Me?" - Oh, because it was
six people in my family older and more agile than
me when I was little, and I couldn't keep up,
and I would just wail, "Wait for me, wait for me." (laughter) It was just a wail. - There's already been a great deal written about your parents,
and about your sisters. Why did you feel that
there was another book waiting to be written? - Well, I thought my parents had been very unfairly treated by
an ever-hostile press, and I thought, all they've got to go on are the press cuttings
from other press people, because they've never
given, gave an interview. And I thought maybe I knew more about them than the press people did. (laughs) So I thought, I'l try and
talk, write about them, and that was the beginning of the book. But then, it went on and on, and it got broader and broader, so in the end, it became a more general book altogether. But that was the start of it. - Well, your parents do, indeed, emerge from the book as far more complex, rounded figures than the caricatures that we're often presented. And there's a lovely sense of them being laid to rest after all the turmoil that was created around
them by their daughters. (laughter) You describe your father
as, "impatient, intolerant, "impulsive, loyal, courageous,
loving, fastidious, "unread, and possessed of great charm, "all underwritten with
courtly good manners to most." (laughter) You clearly loved him very much, and felt a deep kinship
with his attachment to the land, underneath
whatever gruff exterior he presented to the outside world. And you make him out to be just as funny as Uncle Matthew in your
sister Nancy's novels. - My sister Nancy's picture of him was very, very nearly the truth, which was quite unusual for her, (laughter) who was a bit of an
embroider, to say the least. Anyway, he was delighted with what she'd written about him,
and thought it very funny, so that was perfect. She was quite nervous
about what he'd think, but that's how it happened. - And how much do you think, how much of the humor of the Mitford
family do you think came-- - Entirely, entirely him. It all sprang from him. And Nancy, who's 16 years older than me. And when they, when my father and Nancy, were together, it was better than anything you could possibly imagine on the stage. They were such wonderful
foils for each other. But alas that nothing was
ever recorded, of course. But still, there it was. It was in the air. - And you describe his
deadpan manner of speaking where all you children
knew that he was joking but other people didn't often realize. Any particular turn of phrase that must have surprised some people? - I think it did. They didn't know which way to look, whether he was being funny, or whether he was being serious, or whether he was taking them off, or what. But that's how it was. Just remind me of the first one-- - Well, the one I particularly like is, "a meaningless piece of meat," which would describe somebody. - He described people he didn't like in quite a rough way, "a meaningless piece of meat" was quite, quite usual, or "some monkey's orphan." (laughter) People he just couldn't bear. But they were usually... aimed at aunts and uncles,
or somebody like that, but it wasn't terribly
cruel, but it was very, it was just so funny, the
was he spoke about them. - Well, I'm going to read
a piece from the book about Fav and his language. "Two things annoyed Fav in my mother's "otherwise impeccably run house. "If a housemaid was rash enough to remove "the deepest ashes from the grate "where a wood fire burned,
she was in trouble. "Fav was right, it's the
ashes that hold the heat "and ensure a quick start in the morning. "He found a way of avoiding
the second annoyance. "After breakfast, he
refilled his coffee cup, "and took it to his study. "He let it get cold,
and drank what he called "his suckments at intervals
during the morning. "A tidy, new to the job maid took the cup "back to the pantry,
emptied it, and washed it. "This enraged my father. "'Some monkey's orphan
has taken my suckments!' "Thereafter, he locked the
cup in the safe." (laughter) Your father comes across of
something as a Philistine in Nancy's books and in other books that have been written about your family. Like you, he had a reputation for not being a great reader. Was that the case? - Oh, yes, certainly was. He'd only read one book, and it was, it was called "White Fang." And he said it was so
good he couldn't possibly ever read another. (laughter) So that was my father all over. - Your mother tried to
educate him, didn't she? - Oh, yeah, she did. When they were first married,
she was really horrified at the fact that he hadn't read anything or cared a bit about that sort of thing. So she said, "I'll read you out loud, "and I'll start you on Thomas Hardy, "'Tess of the d'Ubervilles,'"
because she thought, he thought, that would appeal to him, being about the land
and farming and so on. So he set off, she set off, reading to him. And after a while, when it got to a very sad bit, my
father started to cry. He was very apt to do that, because he was terribly easily moved to tears. And so my mother said,
"Don't cry, darling. "It's only a story." Upon which my father,
furious, stood up and said, "You don't mean to say the
damn fellow made it up?" (laughter) I think that was the end of
reading out loud for a while. - It was to make up for this cultural void that your sisters started something called "The Outing Club," didn't
they, where your father would drive them to
local places of interest. Did you go along on these trips? - Well, when I was old enough, I did. But it was pretty, pretty, pretty hard, because I was the Club bore. Well, you know how there
always is a club bore, and that was me. And the reason was I had to stop about every 10 miles to be sick. And I knew every blade of grass between us and Stratford-upon-Avon. But that was a necessity. But it didn't seem to
matter much, in the end. - Your mother's also been portrayed as something of an eccentric, and Nancy and Jessica, in particular,
show her as to being rather distant, not very
involved with you as children. What was she really like? - Oh, well, I never found
that about her at all. That was a sort of figment of
Nancy's imagination, I think. She was always completely
and absolutely fair. Everyone was, all my siblings
were the same for her, and I think that was quite difficult, not to have a favorite. She never did. And that meant a lot,
no doubt, to all of us, because some of us were
more difficult than others. So she was just the same, but it was a great comfort, she was always there, and always, you know, around. She taught us all till
she was, till we were, six, I think, and then we were pushed into the schoolroom, but none of us went to school, thank God. But, which was such a
comfort to her, no doubt, but Decca and Unity and Nancy rather wanted to go to school, especially Decca and Unity. So Decca, Unity was
sacked from three schools, one after the other, I suppose just from, for insubordination, nothing worse. And Decca never really got to school, because she longed to go, but she didn't. She wasn't allowed to go. So that was those two. And Unity was a difficult child. She was, if something
annoyed her at meals, she would just very
quietly and very slowly slide under the table,
and stay under the table till the coast was
clear, then she'd get up and go away. But that was her way. - But to go back to your mother, she did have fairly
eccentric views, didn't she, on certain subjects? - She had very definite views on food. Everything had to be homemade. Bread had to be made of wheat which had nothing added and nothing taken away. She reviled what she
called "the wicked miller" Lord Rank, who was a big
seller of white bread. Looked more like cotton wool than bread. And she thought that was an awful take-in for people who couldn't
afford anything different. She was really shocked by that. - She was ahead of her time, in fact. - She was very much ahead of her time, and what else did she do? Well, we just had everything made at home. Of course, we longed for
shop bread and shop butter, and all those things,
but we weren't allowed, so that was it. - I like what she said about refrigerators when they first came in. - Yes, I remember when a man came to demonstrate the first
refrigerators she'd seen, or anyone had seen, in the house, and there was quite a
little group around it. And he showed her how it was going to be and how the ice was made and so on. After a while, she turned
around and she said, "I don't really like refrigerators. "They make the food so cold." (laughter) That was a good point, wasn't it? It's awful when it
comes out of the fridge. - As the youngest of the family, you were terribly teased by your sister, all your sisters, and you
write that they used to say, "You're so stupid, you can't keep up, "you're such a bore." - Such a bore. - "They made a circle around me, "pointing and chanting, 'Who's the least "'important person in the room? "'You!'" - I know. Well, I got used to that, but... Especially from Nancy, of course, who used to torment me by things like when I went to bed at
7:00 or whenever it was, she used to say, "Well,
thank God she's gone, "now I get to do the joy dance." Get rid of her upstairs. And I used to hear a sort of thumping and bumping downstairs. She really was awful, because she really pretended to do that. - And she also told you you would never get married, didn't she, that
you didn't have a chance? - The thing is that you
must remember that all this was a very, very long time ago, 80 years ago. And things were so incredibly different from what they are now that they can't, anybody less than my age,
and there aren't many left, could have no idea how it was. But it was, it was a sort of a race against the grownups, of course. And what else did she say? - Well, she used to tease you you'd never get married, because-- - Oh, yes, the idea was to get married. That was the only thing we could do because we weren't trained to do anything. And anyhow, I don't think any employer would've taken us on, because we had no credentials of any sort, and we had just a series of rather dim governesses, one of whom liked playing raising demons, so we used to play till 11 in the morning, and then we had half past break, and then we used to play
again till lunch time. We got very, very good at it. But that wasn't quite
enough for my mother, so goodbye to her. - And she used to say, that
because you had a gland-- - Oh, yes. - She was very cruel, teasing. - I had a gland in my
neck, which I suppose I got from a tubercular cow. But my mother was rather against getting rid of the tubercular cows. And so Nancy said, "Well, of course "you'll never get married," so I said, "Why? Why?" And she said, "Well, because
of your gland, of course. "What you don't know, is
because you're asleep, "it hubbles and bubbles in the night." (laughter) "And no husband would put up with that "when it happened." And she made up a poem which went, "The hounds and the horses "galloping over the land, all stop to hear "the hubbling bubbling of the gland." (laughter) Which of course made me cry,
but that was the whole point. - The sister you were
closest to as a child was Jessica, Decca, who was
three years older than you. And you write about her,
"We shared everything, "and life without her was unimaginable. "We talked all day in Honish, our own "private language, and when we slept "in the same room, we chatted for half "the night as well. "What about, heaven knows,
but no secrets were hid. "We had each other when the grownups "and older sisters were difficult, "or when the great unfairness of life "seemed to much to bear." In 1937, Decca disappeared, age 19, and your very close relationship with her was shattered, and one senses that even when you came to write about it 70 years later, the memory was still raw. - But she, she set off to, she met Esmond Romilly, who was a second cousin of ours, and fell madly in love with him, partly, I think, because he'd been in
Spain fighting for the... - International brigade. - For the international brigade. And she thought, she
was so admiring of that, that she just disappeared into the blue, as far as we were concerned. We had no idea where she was. My parents didn't know. My father went to meet two trains she was meant to come back on. She never came. And it was an absolute body blow for me, and for them, too, because it was like as though somebody had died in the house. But eventually, she did, she did appear, and of course, she married Esmond, and they were just
totally, completely happy. And my mother was very pleased with that, and she went off to the wedding. And that was so typical of her, she was so loyal to us all, whether we, when we got into what anyone might have thought a slight difficulty,
when she just disappeared. And whenever my mother
saw "peer's daughter" on the headline of The Evening Standard, she used to come home and said, "I suppose it's one of you children." (laughter) - Decca, Decca and Esmond
came to live in America. Esmond was killed during the war. Decca remarried an American
lawyer, Bob Truhaft, became a communist, a
civil rights activist, and a very famous smart
breaking journalist. And you describe your
first meeting with Decca after the war, in 1952,
you'd come to America, and you write, "A new person, trousered, "American in appearance and accent, "someone I did not recognize. "It was the oddest sensation and filled me "with intense loneliness. "What was I doing thousands
of miles from home, "meeting a stranger who'd
once meant more to me "than anyone in the world?" What were you relations
with Decca like after this? - I suppose you could say guarded. When I went to stay with her, it was just the day or two after our King had died, George the fifth. And her communist friends just
thought that very comical, and I didn't know they had no idea what it meant to English people, that. And so I put in my diary,
"Dinner with communists." Next day, "Dinner with more communists." But they were very, very friendly, but they just didn't understand
the depth of that, at all. But the one that I
adored, and still adore, is Dinky, her daughter
with Esmond Romilly, who I'm very happy to say is here tonight. At least I think she is, I
can't see her in the dark. Yeah, there she is, and she's this-- (applause) She's one of the wonders of the world. She was a nurse, and she was in the accident, the bit, what's it called-- - Emergency, yes. The accidents and emergency
departments at Bellevue. - Yes, emergency, of that
hospital in New York called? - Bellevue. - Bellevue. And you were, weren't you, Dinky? - [Voiceover] I was. (laughter) Well, that was a pretty bold and wonderful thing to be, at least I thought it was so admirable, I just
couldn't imagine doing it. So that was the brightest spot. But Decca also, of course, was, became a great friend again,
there's no doubt about that. - Debo, in 1938, you became a debutante, the same year that Joseph Kennedy became US ambassador to London. And you met the Kennedy family, and became close to them. How did that come about? - Well, when they arrived, it caused a sensation in London, because no diplomat had ever arrived with
nine children attached. And the chief thing that
amazed them was Rose. Not any of the others. Because she had such a marvelous figure, and she was so smartly dressed, that all the people of
her age, and anybody who had anything like nine children, were incredibly jealous
of them, because she just, she looked so wonderful. And I made great friends
with Kathleen, Kick, who was practically a twin of mine, and then who eventually married my brother-in-law, Billy Hartington. But after a long tussle
with two archbishops and goodness knows who
else, because of the Catholic Protestant trouble that there was at that time, between the
religious people of that. And it was, it's extraordinary
to think of it now, to think what a barrier
it was, but it was. But however they eventually did marry, with the proviso that Kick should say that any son of the marriage
should be Protestant, and any of the daughters
should be Catholic. But in any event, they were only together for five weeks before he
went to Normandy, on D Day, and all that, and he
was killed by a sniper in Belgium in 1944. And Kick was a widow. And she was in America,
because her brother Joe had been killed and
had a memorial service, after which she went... But everyone absolutely loved Kick. I think girls of 18 are often very jealous of each other, but nobody ever said a word about Kick that wasn't nice. It was extraordinary, actually, the effect she had on people. - What were your first
impressions of Jack Kennedy? - Oh, Jack, well. I wrote in my diary, I only
kept a diary when I was 18, and one entry said,
"Danced with Jack Kennedy. "Very nice, but very dull." (laughter) - Your book has long and very touching descriptions of the
President's inauguration, and of course, of his funeral, both of which events you
had a ring side seat at. And you describe Kennedy,
once he's president, as "such good company, so funny "and straight-forward,
a mixture of schoolboy "and statesman," and you never knew "which was coming next. "He was the only
politician I've ever known "who could laugh at himself, and did. "He never spoke of the post he'd held, "the posts he'd held,
as, in my experience, "English politicians always do. "Jack could say, 'I don't know,' "and in answr to questions, he was direct, "instead of beating about the bush." You bring out an unexpectedly irreverent and funny side to the President. - Yes, he was, he was incredibly funny. I once, at the, the week
of the missile trouble in Cuba. They call it "missul" here, which for me, is either a thrush, or
it's a very ancient book written by an old monk. But it's not like that like
that at all, it's a missile. So that was, dinner was quite odd, because there was only,
there were two friends of Jack, and me, and him. And I thought to myself, well, when dinner was ready, I thought, well, I'm a foreigner, and... A foreigner. - And the only woman, you were. - Oh, yes, and the only woman. So I rather made for the dining room door. But Jack threw out his arm and said, "No, not you. "I go first, I'm head of State." (laughter) He really was so funny. - You reproduce a very
amusing correspondence in the book with Bobby Kennedy, who seems to have shared his brother's spirit and jokiness. - Oh, he was wonderful, Bobby. He would look absolutely straight at you, as though you're only person in the world he wanted to talk to, apart from the case, I'm sure. But he was, he was just so, so charming, and again, very funny. And when I was in Lismore,
where we had a house in County Waterford, he, there was a thing called The Queen's Institute
of District Nursing, which was in bad way for money. So I thought, I know, I'll write to Bobby, and see how that goes, if he could send me some dollars or whatever. So he forced the head of the post office, who was just about to retire, to give the proceeds from his retirement lunch to The Queen's Institute
for District Nursing, upon which this poor man
wrote to me and said, "My ancestors would be
rolling in their graves "if they thought anything to do with "The Queen's Institute..." But anyhow, I got the money. The important (unintelligble). - Did you exchange letters
with the President as well? - Yes, I did. He was very fond of Harold McMillan, who was Andrew's uncle by marriage, in the fact that he'd
married Dorothy Cavendish, Andrew's aunt. And he rather soon got the hang of calling him Uncle Harold,
as lots of people did. And during that Cuban crisis week, they used to telephone to
each other in the night two or three times, and I guess he listened very carefully
to what Uncle Harold said, because he'd been through such a lot of politics and the war where he was grievously wounded, Uncle Harold was. And all that, and Jack was always so interested in the other people, and didn't seem to be
interested in himself, who was a very fascinating
character, as we all know. But they became great
friends, and that was, it was sort of unexpected
and such a funny pairsome. - You and your sisters were
all great letter-writers, and I know, because I edited your letters. I had that hugely enjoyable task of editing the letters
between all six of you. But you kept up with a lot
of other people as well, which brings us to the second book that's coming out at the moment, your letters with Paddy Leigh Fermor. What's Paddy like? - What was he like? - What is he like? - What is he like? He's still very much alive. He'll be 96 in February. Well, he's so full of life, still, that Daphne Fielding, a great friend, said, "The thing is,
when we're in paradise, "we ought to have him made into pills "so we can all have some, "we can all have some, "and get some of his energy." Which we thought was a very good idea, and Paddy thought it was
a frightfully good idea. But it hasn't come off, because
thank God, he's still alive. - And when you first met
him, what was he doing? - He was at a dance given
in the Matlock Hydro, of all places, which was the center of the intelligence people
at that time, in 1940. And we lived very nearby,
Andrew's parents did, and I was staying with them. And Andrew and I were both 20, and so we were very excited
to be asked to a dance, so off we went. And there was, of course
I didn't notice him, because Andrew and I were so totally in love with each other that there was absolutely no question of anything except us dancing around
and thinking of him. - So he saw you, but
you didn't notice him. - No, I didn't. - I'd like to read his
description of that meeting. "In autumn 1940, Smedly's Hydro, "at Matlock in Devonshire, a bleak, "castellated and
blacked-out Victorian pile, "perched high above the rushing Derwind, "was crammed with polyglot
officers of all ages "and origins. "It was the intelligence training center, "which sounds more important than it was. "The war wasn't going
well, and it was thought "that a ball would cheer us up. "So we did our best, with
balloons, chrysanthemums, "and streamers. "Many of the officers were musical, "so we had a band, and
it went with great brio. "Henry Howard, one of the instructors, "brought over a spectacular couple "from nearby Chatsworth. "A tall, slim, ensign in blues, "and an incredibly beautiful girl. "No one could look at anyone else. "They were both 20. "There was nothing showy
about their dancing, "rather the reverse. "We all wished we knew them, but it was "out of the question. "They seemed to be sleep dancing, "utterly wrapped, eyes
shut, as though in a trance. "He was called Andrew Cavendish, "and she was Deborah, the
youngest Mitford sister. "'Funny Howard bringing
that Mitford girl over,' "a crusty old student
said when they'd gone. "'After all, this is meant to be "'the intelligence training center, "'and there is a war on.'" - And what? - There is a war on. - Yes, there's a war on. Everybody always ended, they said something like they didn't
like, they always said that "there's a war on, you know." - So when did you first notice Paddy? - Paddy? Well, at a dance given by the, oh, gosh, what was it called, the equal of the arts council now, I expect it's changed
its name a million times. And they let out premises for people to give a party. And there was Paddy, a war
hero of great repute by then, when he'd captured the German general in charge of Crete, with two or three colleagues. And they'd... They were living in
caves, so they got him up onto a site where Paddy'd been sleeping for some while in a cave, and so Paddy was put in charge, naturally, put in charge of him, because he is the one that caught him. And in the morning, the sun came up out of the blue into, over Mount Ida, and the general recited the first stanza of an ode by Horace. And to his, to the general's astonishment, Paddy knew the next six stanzas by heart, and in perfect Greek. That was the sort of person he was. He was just such an extraordinary mixture. - It's an unlikely
friendship, yours and Paddy's, on the face of it, because Paddy's dazzling erudite, widely
read, speaks many languages. You're a self-professed non-reader, and you say that the only
French you know is, "Ah, oui?" And, "Quelle horrible surprise." - Quite enough to get by. - Paddy's interested in culture, and you're interested in agriculture. You like fairs with animals,
and he likes literary salons. So when he came to stay with you for the first time in 1956, were you rather nervous about his arrival? Were you looking forward to it? - Well, my daughter Emma was 13, and we were both absolutely horrified at the idea at having asked him, because we thought he
was gong to be so bored. And it was, we'd had a rather a rough time with Seryl Conley, who was very pleased with himself and drank
huge quantities of Clarita and made me go and ask
neighboring house owners if we could possibly
see round their house, because he said he wanted to buy a house. No sooner had he got into the hall of these houses, which were
not open to the public, than he turned around and said, "I think we'll leave." It really was awful, I
didn't know what to do. Anyhow, that was my introduction to proper intellectual. So of course we were
petrified of Paddy arriving, and no sooner had he
arrived than all was well. We made great friends. - You right of him that he's "one of those "rare birds who's exactly the same "with whoever he's talking to. "Children recognize him
as a kindred spirit. "With his formidable scholarship "and prodigious memory, he's just as able "to spout Edward Lea, for children, "as Marvel or Shakespeare,
via Noel Coward, "for grownups." He loves wordplay, and he's translated John Peale into Italian, I believe, and Edward Lear's "Akond of Swat" into Hindustani. And he was able to help
you, when you were-- - He was what? - He was able to help you when you were redoing Chatsworth and
had to find some titles for some books, book backs. - For a door, which was a secret door, and it had to have books that sort of coincided with the books already in the library to look at. But the titles were quite different, invented by Paddy. He was useful, you would say so. - Well, I've just got one or two written down here, but the book has two or three pages of them. "Dipsomania by Must Have a Swig." (laughter) "Studies in Sentiment by E. Motion, "Reduced to the Ranks by D. Motion. "Canine Diet by Nora Bone," and it ends up with "Knick
Knacks by Paddy Whack." - That's right. That door is, thank God, still there. It's a real sort of memory of him, because he was just perfect at that trick. He made pages and pages and pages of these suggestions. - Debo, Paddy's one of the
most acclaimed writers. Have you ever read any of his books? - No. (laughter) - Did you read his letters
when you received them? - Oh, yes, I did. - In spite of his handwriting. - His handwriting is really wicked. But nevermind, we wrote to each other for 50 years, and that was, the result is this book called, "In Tearing Haste," because he always put at the bottom, "in tearing haste," but I'm not sure-- - And then covered five or six pages. - After five or six, yes, exactly, five or six pages. But he was a wonderful correspondent, and he used to say, "Please write to me, "Poste restante, Nimes." And it got there, the letter. But what he did with it, I don't know. It was quite easy for me to know what to do with my letters from him, because we had a sort
of vaguely enough room to put them around Chatsworth somewhere, or in a, I don't know, wherever they sort of landed. But Paddy was, at that
time, was a kind of a tramp. And he, what'd he do,
put them in a pocket, but what would have happened if it rained? Anyway, he did. - He did keep, yes. And did you know Joan Asmunsel, his wife? - I did, and she was wonderful. She was beautiful. Very clever. She'd read everything under the sun. She was the perfect partner for Paddy. She loved Greece, and all the things that went with it. And they were together as a pair for a long time. And he, he wrote, he rang me up one day and said, "Joan and I are going "to be married next Thursday. "I don't believe in long engagements." And they'd been stuck
together for ages and ages. And he always used to start
anything he said with, "And Joan, my beloved Joan, who I adore," he used to start. - And Andrew and Paddy
went on travels together, they went on long walks, didn't they? - Well, they did, they went to Peru, and they went to across the Pyrenees, and they had an expedition
to the Pindus Mountains, which, of course, Paddy was familiar with. And they loved those things, and they also took Robin Theton, who was
chairman of the national trust. And they just made a wonderful party. There were three or four more, one was a professional mountaineer, which was just as well
because none of them had ever done it before. And in Peru, they got pretty
high, but they were all right. - And did you ever go on
any travels with Paddy? - Yes, I did, I went to
an extraordinary thing called the, at a village, remote village, in the southwest of Spain. And it was called El Rocío, or that was the name of
the sort of village-- - Yes it were, I think, yes. - That's it. And there was, everything was booked up. It was a famous thing that all
the young men of the village fought to carry the statue of
the Virgin into the church. And it was... Completely stuffed full, there wasn't a room for anybody. So Paddy and I crept into a shed, which was already occupied
by nine gardeners. We all slept on the floor. And everything went well, until Paddy who'd had plenty to
drink, started to snore, and so, he and I were head to tail, as it were. I was by his feet. And, so I really couldn't bear it, and I thought we're not going to get a wink of sleep, any of us. And so I pinched his toes. No reply. Pinched his ankles, higher up, up the leg. No reply. Nothing. Till I did, in the end, I got to a bit, what I did was sort of vaguely, gave him a bit of a jump. And he, he sat up, and said, "What on earth's all this?" So he stopped snoring for a bit. And he went to sleep
again, started snoring. It was murder, I can tell you. - What's Paddy up to now? - He's back in Greece, and he is hoping, hoping, I just hope it will come off, to finish the trilogy of
his walk across England, sorry, Europe, to, from London to Constantinople, which he did because he
longed to go to Greece and on to Constantinople, but he couldn't afford the fare. So he walked. And he's, the first two
books are all about that. Haven't read them, but
I'm sure they're lovely. - Well, it'll be very
good news for all his fans if he is-- - All his fans will be just thrilled, and if ever I say anything about Paddy, they say, "But is, are we
going to see the third book?" And so, I think there's
probably just a chance. He rings up and says, "I'm working on it. "I'm working on it." But he's such a perfectionist,
he writes a page and then he tears it
up and throws it away. So it's an even money chance, I guess. - And you're still writing letters? - Oh, yes. - I'd like to read from one
of your letters to Paddy, about a stay at
Sandringham, with the Queen and Prince Phillip in 1984. "Darling Paddy, Sandrignham has got "a wonderful atmosphere, and makes one "feel dangerously at home straightaway. "Our bathroom had three marble basins, "with letters engraved into them. "The first said, 'Head and face only.' "The second, 'Hands,' and good heavens, "the last were blank, so I don't know what "it can have been for." (laughter) - Wasn't it extraordinary? But it was of course
great amusement to Andrew, who was absolutely thrilled with them. Because never did knew, none of us knew what they were for, and
I was too shy to ask. - "I picked a horse's hoof off Andrew's "writing table, with Persimmon, "King Edward the 7th's Derby winner "written on it, turned it over to see "if it had a golden shoe, and an awful, "rare liquid poured out over everything: "ink. "How could I guess? "I wrecked Andrew's sponge trying "to wash the carpet, and had to give up "as the horrible beige thing was turning "blacker and bluer every minute. "So I rang for the maid, and fled." (laughter) What's Paddy like as a guest? - Oh, Paddy as a guest. Well, everything's always just wrong. "Could you, this writing table's "just at the wrong angle,
could you move it please? "Or get another one, or something." And so, you know, always
just, a little bit wrong. But it usually involved moving very heavy bits of furniture. But the last time he came to stay, he got in the bath, and looked at the tap end, and saw, to his horror, that his feet had turned black. And he thought, oh my God, my eyes are going, my ears have gone, and my teeth have gone. He always stamped on him, that's why. And I don't know what I'm going to do, now I've got these two black feet. And he got out of the
bath, and all was well. He'd got in with his black socks on. (laughter) That was Paddy all over, that time. - Debo, at 90, you show no sign of wanting to slow down, and I thought when you chose "Wait for Me" as the title for your memoir, you'd be had up under the trade's description act, because in fact everyone
runs to keep up with you. But what is your greatest pleasure today? - Oh, well, there's no doubt. It's looking at an engagement book with nothing written on it. (laughter) Sometimes, it doesn't
sometimes last, you know. Telephone goes, or something happens. People say, "We just would like "to come and see you on
our way to Scotland." That sort of thing. - Debo, I've asked you
a lot of questions now. Would anyone else like
to ask any questions? - [Voiceover] I've been
reading the exchange of letters I've been reading the exchange of letters with Patrick Leigh Fermor,
and I'm very curious about this pedestrian trek he took from London all the way across Europe. He must have hitched a ride, mustn't he? And if his father only
gave him a pound a week, how did he survive? - Well, he had extraordinary talent for making friends. Either in the pub, or
some castle or other. And he just, he sort of... Was handed on by people who just loved his company, to the next person who was a castle or a pub, and that's how he did it, I think. But it was quite a feat, I quite agree. - Well, a pound a week
went a lot further than then it would now-- - It was a pound a month. - A month, I beg your pardon. - Yes. - [Voiceover] Tomorrow
will be Armistice Day, perhaps you'd share a little about his remarkable war effort. - Yes, it was indeed remarkable. Well, he was parachuted into Crete, and it was obviously very, very dangerous, and I said, "What was the most "frightening thing?" He said, "Well, if anybody discovered us, "me and Zan Fielding," his great friend, "with a toothbrush, which we did keep, "we'd have been shot, because no shepherd "in Crete ever had a toothbrush." But that was the sort
of thing that he did. But he was, he was renowned for his, his courage and his... And his brilliance in capturing that man. He put on his cap and they went through all the barriers, and in the dark, and of course the soldiers there thought he was a general. But had they been caught, God knows what would have happened. The general was bundled
up on the back seat. It was a very strange episode. But it was turned into a film called "Ill Met by Moonlight," and Paddy was represented by Dirk Bogarde. And it became a very famous film. - Yes, because Paddy himself has never written about his time during the war. - He doesn't, he never talks much about what he did, like most soldiers after those wars. They hardly ever do, do they? - No. - I wish I could tell
you more, but you know, they just don't speak about it. He got an immediate DSO for his capture of that general. - [Voiceover] But then
he dropped in Greece. - Yes, he was. In Crete, in Crete. He's a hero in Crete. He's always going to reunions, but they're practically all dead now, he's practically the only
one one left, I think, who remembers all those times, I mean with the shepherds,
and these friends. - [Voiceover] And he met the general, whom he captured, in Greece, and he hosted then his (unintelligble) - Yeah, he did what? - No, they met again years after the war. - They did. And it must have been
a very strange meeting, because they were both
that much older, of course, and odd to have met again. But anyway, they did, and
it was a curious meeting. - [Voiceover] Your Grace, your sister Pam is believed to have
written about many of you. I wonder if you have any special memories or stories about her, your sister Pamela. - Pam? - [Voiceover] Yeah. - Oh, she was wonderful. She was absolutely unique. She was one who did
not know any difference between anybody to whom
she met or talked to. She was like Paddy in that way. And when my son and daughter-in-law were married, there was
a dance given afterwards, and a dinner party before. And she was put next to Lord Mountbatten, and he turned to her, and he said, "I believe you're called
'Woman' in the family." And she said in her
absolutely inimitable voice, "Yes, I am, and may I ask who you are?" (laughter) Upon which he turned his back, and little did they speak much more, sorry. - [Voiceover] Duchess, I would like to ask you a question that is
really historical in nature, about the Duchess of Devonshire who was the best friend of Mrs. Potter Palmer, during the Colombian exposition of 1893, and I can't find the name, other than the Duchess of Devonshire, to be able to identify Mrs. Potter Palmer's friend. - Who she was? - [Voiceover] Yes. - She was called Louise
van Alton, she was German. And she was the mistress
of the Duke of Devonshire for years before they married. But in those days, people
didn't get divorced. And so she was married to
the Duke of Manchester, and so she was called the Double Duchess after the married the Duke of Devonshire. (laughter) - [Voiceover] (unintelligble) - I beg your pardon? - [Voiceover] Has there been a book written about her? - No. At least, I've never seen one. Not a book just about her. There are heaps about him,
the Duke of Devonshire, because he was three times asked to be Prime Minister by Queen Victoria, and King Edward. But three times he refused, and said he was too tired or something. He was always asleep. (laughter) He went to, the legend is he went to sleep in his own speeches. (laughter) - Yes? There's a wonderful photograph of a book of all the people dressed as other potentates of various kinds, and they're absolutely brilliant. What can I do? - [Voiceover] I think we
will allow you to rest, and to meet afterwards. This has been an evening that none of us will forget. Thank you both so much, and please-- (applause) - Thank you, thank you very much. (applause)
