| Summary: |
In 1957 John Julius Cooper (later Norwich) was keeping open house in Beirut, {u2018}the Clapham Junction of the world{u2019}s air routes{u2019}.Guests were given dinner on the terrace, where the Coopers liked to watch their faces {u2018}as, promptly at ten minutes past nine, an immense, luminous grapefruit appeared from behind Sannine and climbed slowly up into the eastern sky{u2019}. JJ{u2019}s passions {u2014} for history, for Venice, for music {u2014} have always been enlivened by a sense of theatre: his books are erudite and entertaining. His mother, Lady Diana, took to the stage at the age of 30; she had some of the instincts of a stage manager, too, never more in demand than when she became the chatelaine of the British embassy in Paris after the war. His father, Duff Cooper, was a diplomat. JJ{u2019}s uncle, the Duke of Rutland, always had 60 or 70 people to Belvoir Castle over Christmas and New Year {u2014} JJ, as an only child, skipped merrily between the battlements and the cousins. The Coopers{u2019} weekend guests included H. G. Wells, the Churchills, and Hilaire Belloc, who sang ancient French songs in an old, cracked voice. JJ performed, too, for pocket money: there was never any question of not including him. He was a longed-for miracle {u2014} Diana was 37 and had been told she would never have children. She once told her son that by 1916 Duff Cooper was the only boy she{u2019}d ever danced with who was still alive. Duff drank hard and toured America to drum up support for the war. When it broke out, the 11-year-old JJ found himself spirited away for safety to a prep-school in Canada, an experience he seems to have enjoyed although it kept him away from his parents for a year. Eventually he returned to Eton, where a boy{u2019}s life was still largely a Victorian pantomime of fagging and hot buttered toast. His parents got the Paris embassy job in 1944, making JJ possibly the youngest British visitor to Paris since 1939; he flew there in an RAF transport, too. In splendid contravention of publishing fashion, these are memoirs of almost unalloyed happiness, and they recreate a world which seems, on the whole, safer, wittier and richer than our own. |