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Reading In Tearing Haste: Letters Between Deborah Devonshire and Patrick Leigh Fermor. It becomes both indispensable and ludicrously charming on approximately page two with the following exchange, from 1955. He was living in Greece on the island of Hydra and writing to her at her husband's Ancestral Castle in Ireland; they were discussing the possibility of him visiting.
Illustrated, twice, in scratchy pen-and-ink: one drawing of an obvious Fermor-fish, smug as anything, with other fish eying him from the side and saying 'A splendid swimmer', and one of the island of Hydra surrounded by Greek Winds (blowing puffy faces in the clouds, vaguely bemused), with a little dotted line across an expanse of ocean leading up to a turreted castle on a promontory, and going in at one of the windows. It appears to be the turret tower window, significantly out of range of human, fish, or persons without a set of ladders. Both pictures are very well-drawn, in good perspective, and expressive.
And then as an answer he got back:
And by Fred Astaire she did mean Fred Astaire. A relative of hers by marriage.
I am now picturing Fred Astaire's reaction to a person-turned-into-a-fish-and-turning-back coming in at his upper turret window. He seems fairly composed, mostly just quirking an eyebrow. I really wish this were the sort of thing that actually happened to people, but the letters will have to do in that respect.
The rest of the book also appears to be a delightful document of sixty years (!) of correspondence between two opinionated, bright, distinctive people who knew everybody. It ranges from a first-person account of the Kennedy inauguration to filming in Africa with Errol Flynn, and that's just the first fifty pages. Highly recommended.
[Patrick]
My plan is this: there is a brilliant young witch on this island (aged sixteen and very pretty), sovereign at thwarting the evil eye, casting out devils and foiling spells by incantation. It shouldn't be beyond her powers to turn me into a fish for a month and slip me into the harbour. I reckon I could get through the Mediterranean, across the Bay of Biscay, round Land's End and over the Irish Sea in about 28 days (if the weather holds) and on into the Blackwater. I'm told there's a stream that flows under your window, up which I propose to swim and, with a final effort, clear the sill and land on the carpet, where I insist on being treated like the frog prince for a couple of days of rest and recovery. (You could have a tank brought up-- or lend me your bath if this is not inconvenient-- till I'm ready to come downstairs. Also some flannel trousers, sensible walking shoes and a Donegal tweed Norfolk jacket with a belt across the small of the back and leather buttons.) But please be there. Otherwise there is all the risk of filleting, meunière etc., and, worst of all, au bleu...
[some omitted]
P.S. Please write & say if this arrangement fits in with your plans.
Illustrated, twice, in scratchy pen-and-ink: one drawing of an obvious Fermor-fish, smug as anything, with other fish eying him from the side and saying 'A splendid swimmer', and one of the island of Hydra surrounded by Greek Winds (blowing puffy faces in the clouds, vaguely bemused), with a little dotted line across an expanse of ocean leading up to a turreted castle on a promontory, and going in at one of the windows. It appears to be the turret tower window, significantly out of range of human, fish, or persons without a set of ladders. Both pictures are very well-drawn, in good perspective, and expressive.
And then as an answer he got back:
Dear Paddy L F,
I was v v excited to get your letter with the swimming plan in it. It is a frightfully good plan, but the pestilential thing is that you would find, not me, but Fred Astaire installed in this pleasant residence. However if you could swim a bit further to the right and land in England and then be like an eel & get a bit across the land you can have the freedom of my bath in Derbyshire & I will have the sensible shoes etc. ready.
And by Fred Astaire she did mean Fred Astaire. A relative of hers by marriage.
I am now picturing Fred Astaire's reaction to a person-turned-into-a-fish-and-turning-back coming in at his upper turret window. He seems fairly composed, mostly just quirking an eyebrow. I really wish this were the sort of thing that actually happened to people, but the letters will have to do in that respect.
The rest of the book also appears to be a delightful document of sixty years (!) of correspondence between two opinionated, bright, distinctive people who knew everybody. It ranges from a first-person account of the Kennedy inauguration to filming in Africa with Errol Flynn, and that's just the first fifty pages. Highly recommended.
