Not being interested by the Mitfords is such an unpopular opinion that I almost declined to write this piece. Perhaps five years ago, when I had less confidence in my own opinions, I would have been too wary of condemnation by the countless Mitford minions to do so. There is an endless fascination with these sisters and a whole industry surrounding them, and, try as I might to engage, I just cannot summon enthusiasm for any of it. I have tried to enjoy Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate several times, and always find myself bored and mildly irritated. These are hailed as works of comic genius and I scarcely raise a smile. What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I get the hype?
Maybe it’s that these novels reached me far too late. Perhaps, had I read them at 13, I’d now have a deep, enduring affection for them. Maybe it’s because my first encounter with the Mitfords was during a history class about extremism in the 1930s, and so the first sister I met was Unity, who stalked Hitler and then shot herself in the head when war broke out with the gun he had given her. Then there was Diana, another odious anti-Semite who married the British Union of Fascists leader Oswald Mosley. I didn’t taint Nancy unfairly with that brush, however: I read up on her and her communist sister Decca, was moderately interested by the political gulf that emerged in the family, then moved on with my life.
Content from our partners
