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Nancy Mitford

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Don't Tell Alfred Paperback – August 10, 2010

by Nancy Mitford (Author)

3.9 797 ratings

Book 1 of 1: Radlett and Montdore

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In this delightful comedy, Fanny—the quietly observant narrator of Nancy Mitford’s two most famous novels—finally takes center stage.

Fanny Wincham—last seen as a young woman in The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate—has lived contentedly for years as housewife to an absent-minded Oxford don, Alfred. But her life changes overnight when her beloved Alfred is appointed English Ambassador to Paris.

Soon she finds herself mixing with royalty and Rothschilds while battling her hysterical predecessor, Lady Leone, who refuses to leave the premises. When Fanny’s tender-hearted secretary begins filling the embassy with rescued animals and her teenage sons run away from Eton and show up with a rock star in tow, things get entirely out of hand. Gleefully sending up the antics of mid-century high society, Don’t Tell Alfred is classic Mitford.

Book 1 of 1

Radlett and Montdore
Print length

240 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Vintage
Publication date

August 10, 2010
Dimensions

5.1 x 0.6 x 8 inches
ISBN-10

0307740846
ISBN-13

978-0307740847
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Editorial Reviews

Review

“A wickedly clever novel in Nancy Mitford’s best vein, hilariously funny in conception and execution.” —Chicago Tribune

“Witty, high-spirited, entertaining, perceptive, and both a little cozy and a little cruel.” —The New York Times

About the Author

Nancy Mitford, daughter of Lord and Lady Redesdale and the eldest of the six legendary Mitford sisters, was born in 1904 and educated at home on the family estate in Oxfordshire. She made her debut in London and soon became one of the bright young things of the 1920s, a close friend of Henry Green, Evelyn Waugh, John Betjeman, and their circle. A beauty and a wit, she began writing for magazines and writing novels while she was still in her twenties. In all, she wrote eight novels as well as biographies of Madame de Pompadour, Voltaire, Louis XIV, and Frederick the Great. She died in 1973. More information can be found at www.nancymitford.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I

On the day which was to be such a turning-point in my life, I went to London by the 9.07. I had planned to do a little shopping; somebody had told me of Chinese robes in the sales, perfect for dinner at home since they would cover up everything. I was also going to see my naughty boy, Basil, a perennial worry to me; Aunt Sadie begged me to look in on Uncle Matthew and there was something I had long wanted to put to him. I had appointments to lunch with the one and to have tea with the other. It was a Saturday because that was Basil’s half-holiday – he was cramming for the Foreign Office. We were to meet at a restaurant, then go back to his lodgings, what used to be called ‘rooms’ and is now called a ‘service flat’. My idea was to do a little, surely much needed, tidying up there, as well as to collect some dirty clothes, and bring them back with me to have them washed or cleaned. I took a large canvas hold-all to contain them and the Chinese robe, if I bought it.

But, oh dear, I don’t think I’ve ever looked such a fool as I did in that Chinese robe, with my brown walking shoes, enormous beneath the hem, hair untidy from dragging off a hat, leather bag clasped to bosom because it had £28 in it and I knew that people snatched bags at sales. The assistant earnestly said think of the difference if I were carefully coiffée and maquillée and parfumée and manicurée and pedicurée, wearing Chinese sandals (next department, 35/6) and lying on a couch in a soft light. It was no good, however – my imagination could not get to work on all these hypotheses; I felt both hot and bothered; I tore the robe from me and fl ed from the displeasure of the saleswoman.

I had made my plan with Basil some days before, on the telephone. Like all the children he is quite incapable of either reading or writing a letter. I was rather more worried about him than usual; last time he had come to Oxford his clothes had been distinctly on the Teddy side while his hair combed (or rather pulled) over his forehead and worn in a bob at the back gave him a curiously horrible look. This, no doubt, is now the fashion and not in itself a cause for alarm. But when he was alone with me he had spoken about his future, saying that the prospect of the Foreign Service bored him and that he thought he could put his talent for languages to better account in some other career. The sinister words ‘get rich quick’ were uttered. I was anxious to see him again and ask a few questions. It was a blow, therefore, though not a great surprise, when he failed to turn up at the restaurant. I lunched there alone and then went off to find his service flat. The address he had given me, in Islington, turned out to be a pretty old house, come down in the world (soon no doubt to come down altogether). There were five or six bells at the front door with cards attached; one bell had no card but somebody had scribbed Baz on the wall beside it. I pressed it, without much hope. Nobody came. I went on pressing at intervals.

A sharp lad in Teddy costume was lounging in the street, eyeing me. Presently he came up and said, ‘If it’s old Baz you’re after, he’s gone to Spain.’

Rain, rain, go to Spain. ‘And when will he be back again?’

‘When he comes for the next batch. Old Baz is a travel agent now, didn’t you know? Joined up with his Grandad – some people are lucky in their relations. Baz herds them out to the Costa Brava, goes into hiding while they live it up there and brings back the bodies a week later. Or that’s the general idea – he’s only just started the work.’

Travel agent – Grandad – what did the child mean? Was not this a line of talk intended to keep me here until a man who was walking up the street should be out of sight? There was nobody else about, this dread Teddy, armed, no doubt, with blades, was clearly after my bag and the £28. I gave him a nervous, idiotic smile. ‘Thank you very much,’ I said, ‘that’s just what I thought. Good-bye and thank you.’

Upper Street was near and very soon I was in a good old No. 19 sagely ambling towards Piccadilly. This sort of thing always happened when I tried to see Basil. Oh well, one must put oneself in his shoes. Why should he want to spend his Saturday afternoon with a middle-aged mother? What a bore for a young man, on his own for the first time, to have to watch this elderly woman messing about in his room and taking away his suits. All the same, it was not like him to throw one over quite so callously; what could have happened? How could I find out? Meanwhile here I was in London on a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do until tea-time. We were passing the National Gallery, but I felt too dispirited to go in. I decided to walk off my bad temper in the Park.

Though I have lived in London for longish periods at various times in my life, I have never been a Londoner, so that its associations to me are more literary and historic than personal. Every time I visit it I am saddened by seeing changes for the worse: the growing inelegance; the loss of character; the disappearance of landmarks and their replacement by fl at and faceless glass houses. When I got off my bus at Hyde Park Corner, I looked sadly at the huge hotel where Montdore House used to be, in Park Lane. When first built it had been hailed as a triumph of modern architecture, but although it had only stood there for three years it had already become shabby, the colour of old teeth, and in an odd way out of date. I stumped off towards Kensington Gardens. Somebody had told me that Knightsbridge Barracks were soon to go, so I said good-bye to them. I had never looked at them very carefully – I now saw that they were solid and well built in a pretty mixture of brick and stone. No masterpiece, but certainly far better than the glorified garage that would replace them. Wendy’s Wishing Well is horribly altered, I noted, and what has happened to the trees in the Broad Walk? However, Kensington Palace is still there, though probably not for long, and eccentric old men are still sailing boats on the Round Pond, which has not, as yet, been dried and levelled and turned into a car park.

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Vintage; 1st edition (August 10, 2010)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 240 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0307740846
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0307740847
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 7.2 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.1 x 0.6 x 8 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #860,507 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
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3.9 797 ratings

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David Fulmer

Wonderful and Witty

Reviewed in the United States on December 25, 2023

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This novel is narrated by Fanny Wincham who previously gave us the two novels The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate. In Don’t Tell Alfred, Fanny’s husband, the Oxford don Alfred, is made the British ambassador to France and this book is full of Fanny’s adventures in Paris. There is a parade of eccentrics and humorous difficulties featuring Fanny’s new position, her family, her coworkers, and the French government. This novel has the most digressive plot of the the three novels narrated by Fanny, but the charm and wit of the Nancy Mitford point of view is as strong and appealing as ever here.

A lot of the attention is focused on Fanny’s social secretary, Northey, who is described thus: “She lived, quite frankly, for pleasure. … ‘she is as frivolous as a figure from the twenties.’” Her flirtations, her attraction to almost every man she encounters, and her fondness for animals and concern for their safety is mined for tremendously enjoyable humour. She is a spontaneous eccentric who brings to mind Lord Merlin from The Pursuit of Love and Cedric from Love in a Cold Climate and her adventures are just as entertaining as those two.

There are lots of witty side stories here about school boys escaping their boarding school and previous ambassadors wives who won’t leave the embassy, and a laugh out loud funny digression about the package travel business to Spain. Amidst the side-splitting fun there are also updates and appearances from characters from Mitford’s other two novels narrated by Fanny like Cedric, Lady Montdore, Polly, Boy Dougdale, and Uncle Matthew. It all goes into the makings of a too charming novel with loads of wit and crazy adventures.

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Lizaveta

Not as good as her earlier novels

Reviewed in the United States on April 29, 2018

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While this is an engaging read, somehow the characters don't come to life in your mind like those in The Pursuit of Love or Love in a Cold Climate, Mitford's previous books with the same narrator. I highly recommend reading those two and only moving on to Don't Tell Alfred if they capture your imagination enough to want to find out something of the characters' destinies a few years down the road.
On the other hand, Mitford's writing sparkles, as ever, as the finest champagne. Mitford Girls fans will definitely enjoy the final Radlett installment while i would encourage others to read them in order of publication.

6 people found this helpful

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Kindle Customer

"She...reflected on the enormous length of human life and the curious turns it takes."

Reviewed in the United States on December 23, 2012

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So Fanny muses to herself as she sips a sherry at the Ritz. She has been transformed from a school girl in the "hons closet", to a mother of four, to the cosmopolitan hostess in the embassy to France. Of course, while she is the hostess to politicians and society, her family continues to appear in her life. In fact one of the funniest scenes is when her son David appears at an embassy formal dinner in dressed for a religious pilgrimage to the China. With him he brings his adopted son and his wife, all dressed in soiled clothing and unkempt hair. There is a former diplomat's wife who refuses to leave the embassy and holds parties in her bedroom until she is vanquished with the vague threat of people not being invited to the "event". Pretty Mildred Jungfleisch appears in an unabashed character based on the real life Susan Alsop, a woman who insists on knowing all the facts she can muster. Her secretary is a niece who has borrowed her salary through the next year and often begs Fanny to take care of her duties.

Mitford makes fun of everyone in this novel. She comments on the Americans who are " mad and ill and frightened. They are fighting to express themselves in a language they've never properly learned." She finds the English stodgy, the French flighty. The setting is is the post war 1950's. While the labels for gay men are antiquated, she bucks the trend of her times of bigotry and finds their sexual life unimportant to their life at parties. She will often silence a guest holding forth in judgment about anyone with the comment, "that isn't said anymore." Fanny finds everyone with aspirations of unkindness ridiculous and comments to us frequently.

I find the characters delightful. I do not think the political jokes to be obscure. The writing is light and frothy, but still a commentary on her time. The book passes a winter's day delightfully. Mitford takes us to a world of parties, social debacles, and family oddities. Who doesn't sigh at times at the long time we must cope with life? Why not sigh with irreverent Nancy Mitford?

20 people found this helpful

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susannah Bianchi

Do Tell Alfred

Reviewed in the United States on June 8, 2020

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This book was so beautifully wrapped for a used read, that had no markings whatsoever, giving the best impression of being new.

It came fast too, a grace to be sure, during this challenging time.

Very grateful to the seller, I highly recommend.

One person found this helpful

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Travelmel

Okaaay but Kindle version is awful

Reviewed in the United States on February 24, 2012

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I really like Nancy Mitford's writing style but I didn't enjoy this one anywhere near as much as "Pursuit of Love' and 'Love in A Cold Climate'. Fanny is older now and her rather haphazard approach to life doesn't sit well with motherhood - her light hearted shallowness seems neglectful when you see how the kids turn out.
Some of this I think is from the completely rubbish editing on Kindle - spaces are left out, words misspelled, etc - which makes it very hard to get swept up with the story.
Perhaps a book to get if you like getting all the works of an author but if you do, get the book, not the Kindle version.

One person found this helpful

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L. Jacobs

Falling off of a great writer

Reviewed in the United States on April 27, 2017

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I love Mitford's early novels. This, her last, is a big falling off. It appears she was taken by surprise by the negative reviews, but was this brilliant writer really unaware of what went wrong? Mitford was older when she wrote this book and her sensibility had stiffened. The light touch we expect is now heavy-handed and the prejudices of her class, well reined in the early novels, here comes through unmediated and often offensive. The plot is antic, convoluted, and unbelievable. Fanny is a bore. Grace has become a bore. Alfred is a cipher. And the children speak in a way that's just weird. It's rough-going and I got to the point where I skimmed to the end.

One person found this helpful

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Kindle Customer

Great Read

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 22, 2023

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Having read the last two books in the series, I could not wait to read this book and I was not disappointed.

casenmoins

Très bien écrit

Reviewed in France on January 21, 2014

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Bien écrit, drole, plein de vocabulaire amusant et assez typique d'une époque. On se croirait dans Downton Abbey! A recommander

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Lynsreads

written in 1950/60 a little quiet - preferred the Love in a Cold Climate and Pursuit of Love - ...

Reviewed in Australia on June 9, 2015

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written in 1950/60 a little quiet - preferred the Love in a Cold Climate and Pursuit of Love - this is an extension of the characters

One person found this helpful

CD

immer wieder amüsant.

Reviewed in Germany on November 23, 2009

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Wahnwitzig komisch und nur im englischen Original optimal genießbar. Diese englishness dürfte nahezu unübersetzbar sein. Die Mitfords sind einfach unglaublich.

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Speedy Tuft

Typos really dread

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on March 7, 2013

Verified Purchase

Most critics consider this to be one of Mitford's weakest books but I liked it a lot when I first read it about thirty years ago and I enjoyed it just as much, possibly more, reading it again. But I have to agree with other reviewers about the typos. There is at least one on every other page. And some, for example the Iles Minquiers are almost always the Lies Minquiers, a simple search and replace would have solved with a couple of key strokes.

When you are looking a book which is out of copyright, free, and scanned by volunteers, this is acceptable. In a book for which you are paying practically the same price as the paperback, which I have very little doubt does not have these typos, it's a different matter.

One person found this helpful

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