My Life

My Life - Oswald Mosleyto visit the tombs of his ancestors in the romantic San Frutuoso, which can only beapproached from the sea, so that in mediaeval times it could never be violated; thefamily had often contributed legendary figures to the Genoese past. Later we stayedwith him at Torrioni, near Pinerolo, the Italian cavalry school. His occupation was therearing of racehorses to which the exceptional grass of the neighbourhood wasremarkably suitable. The pasture was irrigated by cold, clear water from the ItalianAlps, and the result was an extraordinary beauty of landscape combining blue Italianskies with grass of Irish green. Old and new Italian friends have made an enduringparadise for us in that enchanted land, whenever the hard exigencies of our livespermitted the time.The children had been left in the south of France to return with friends to England bytrain, and we continued alone in the boat with the crew to Rome. Although this tourwas intended to be entirely non-political—a relaxation after hard years—I was a littledoubtful what would happen in Rome, where such big changes had taken place since Ihad last been there in a more conspicuous fashion. However, we were receivedeverywhere with the warmest friendship whenever I was recognised. I have alwaysloved the Italian people and agree with a wise French friend who paraphrasesVoltaire's aphorism on another subject: if the Italians did not exist, we should have toinvent them.At Rome we began our return journey and set sail again for France, with a resolutionto return to Italy, which in our new life as in our old was often gloriously fulfilled. AtCannes we left the boat for the winter, promising ourselves at least a short holiday inthe following year before disposing of a possession which in my life occupied toomuch time as well as being expensive. Having endured so much from the follies ofBritish government, we felt we might at least profit a little from their last absurdity indirecting us to this strange but agreeable occupation by the denial of our passports.Beckoning to us now was the exciting prospect of the first journey through France forthirteen years along the once familiar road, the national seven.Diana's youngest sister Deborah met us in Cannes and brought us back in her car. Wedecided on a gastronomic tour, as we had with us an excellent guide-book of muchearlier days entitled: Ou Dejeunerons-nous? It was written in lyrical French prosewhich was almost transmuted to pure poesy on arrival at 'the temples of Frenchgastronomy', and was dedicated to a gentleman whose magnificent stomach had testedthese four thousand addresses for the benefit of posterity, but in the end hadsuccumbed, a martyr to the cause.We had a few well-proven test runs in the vicinity of Cannes and finally settled on theeve of our departure to dine at one of the fine old classic restaurants of that city. Deboinsisted on paying for one in three of these occasions as she was now a marriedwoman of some years standing, but looked so young in her diaphanous summerclothing that no one would have believed it. Waiters observed me diningmagnificently in the company of Diana, then at the height of her extraordinary beauty,and of this lovely child, enchanting and also seemingly enchanted, for to theirastonishment she finally pulled a large wad of notes out of her pocket and paid theimmense bill. An old waiter whispered in my ear: 'C'est monsieur qui a la chance'. Heturned out to be a friend of long ago, well content to see my fortunes thus superblyrestored. We returned along that road, more golden in our eyes than the one to354 of 424