My Life

My Life - Oswald Mosleypopular favour in a slight change of circumstance often now acclaims those who haverecently evaded the assassin. His premature death three years ago from a heart attackwhile speaking in the Italian Chamber was another loss to Europe of a fine characterand brilliant personality; the stress of the years had taken toll.We left the enchanted islands with reluctance, but were soon recompensed byrenewed contact with France; the first point was the little seaside town of Cassis, witha good small harbour. There we met Diana's sister, Nancy Mitford, who was stayingin a neighbouring house. The merry screams of the reunited sisters could well haveechoed through the short six kilometres to Marseilles, where the large majority werefar from being of my political opinion. We then kidnapped the husband of Nancy'shostess, whom I had known long ago, and took him along the coast to St. Tropez,where he found himself very much at home. On the Island of Porquerolles betweenMarseilles and Cannes we had the joy of meeting a number of friends. The familiarNewbury figure of our country neighbour, Mrs Reginald Fellowes, was anchored nextto us in a magnificent yacht which appeared more likely to be the product of herAmerican mother's Singer sewing-machine millions—she always crossed herselfwhen she saw one of their numerous advertisements— than of English agriculture, inwhich her speciality was black sheep. Gaston Bergery, in my youth the risingparliamentary hope of the French Radical Party, was there with his American wife,Bettina, whom I remembered from earlier years in Paris for her droll wit in French,American, or an intermediate language of her own, as well as for the exquisitedistinction of her appearance. With them in Porquerolles we met for the first time theMarquis and Marquise de Pomereu, whose Louis XIII chateau at Daubeuf inNormandy, shooting-parties and ingeniously varied guests, have combined for yearswith the charm of their own company to add to the felicity of our French life. By thetime we had passed along the French Mediterranean coast to the Italian frontier, oldfriends had encompassed us like rose petals in a summer breeze, and the dark yearshad fallen from us.Soon over the Italian frontier, we arrived at Portofino, where I had spent my firsthoneymoon, twenty-nine years before, in the mediaeval fortress on the hill; apoignancy of memory. The fishing village was apparently unaltered, the paintedshutters of the pretty little houses seemed still to protect peasant interiors from themid-day sun, but I was told that they now usually concealed the sumptuous dwellingsof millionaires from Milan. Happily in Italy the rich usually have the taste not to spoilthe art of the poor. Everything outwardly was just the same, and past and presenthappiness blended.At Cannes we had taken on board Hugh Cruddas, a friend of happy companionship inthe circle of Gerald Berners at Faringdon. At Portofino we met a friend of his, LordBridport, an English sailor who as a collateral descendant of Nelson had inherited theestates in Sicily and the Italian dukedom of Bronte. I understood that he was just whathe appeared to be, a staid supporter of the Conservative Party, but sinister rumourswere soon reputed to have reached the ears of nervous diplomats in the BritishEmbassy in Rome. We were apparently supposed to have been seen and heardtogether arm-in-arm on the Piazza of Portofino singing 'Giovinezza'. Needless to say,there was not a word of truth in the tale; those were jumpy days for diplomats.It was at Portofino that we met Oberto Doria, who took us a short way along the coast353 of 424