The brittle universe inhabited by Mitford's English society folk can lure or repel in equal measure. At her best as in Love in a Cold Climate, her observations are hilarious, her insights profound, her caricatured characters memorable. First published in 1949, it is the expected insider's view of a closed circle in which money, amusement and a sensible marriage are deemed a birthright, while beauty justifies one's existence. It is the sort of society in which learning a plain girl is training to be a vet causes Lady Montdore to remark: "First sensible thing I've heard about any of them. No point in cluttering up the ballrooms with girls who look like that, it's simply not fair on anybody." Later, when her grandchild dies, she muses, "I expect it was just as well, children are such an awful expense nowadays." Montdore, who makes Lady Bracknell appear sensitive, is the mother of dull but lovely Polly who breaks free when she weds against Mummy's wishes. This novel's strength lies in its narrator's voice. Fanny is shrewd, benignly gossipy and sufficiently ordinary to be intimate with everybody. Interestingly, she does not reflect on her life and marriage and reveals little about herself. Mitford, for all her surefootedness and brisk dialogue, is neither a Wilde nor an Austen. Nor is she a Waugh. Yet there is a darkness barely concealed by the froth, a sneaking awareness of death, and a toughness about her vision which, despite the satire, is ultimately rooted in an enduring belief in her England.
