D.V. (13 page)

In my leisure time I appear rather…impractical. But I do think that I've made a practical woman out of myself. You can't have worked the number of years I have, through hell and high water, without being
basically
practical.

A man has a disciplined, clear mind and a sense of language. When he writes a business letter, for instance, it's with total authority—there can't be a comma wrong or a semicolon wrong or a word with two sides to it. Whereas a woman…I had to learn discipline. And it was men—particularly Reed Vreeland—who taught it to me.

By the time I moved back to America and went to work, I was quite well formed in the discipline department. Very few women had affected me. Carmel Snow, the editor of
Harper's Bazaar
, certainly had no effect on me when I arrived. In fact, in a curious way, I think she resented my taste. But I know I was always influenced by Elsie Mendl.

Elsie had total discipline. You could see her discipline in the way she'd arrange flowers, in the way she'd plan a meal…in the way she did everything. Everything had a plan. She was very Ameri
can in that way, but she also had a great understanding of the French eighteenth century, which was a very logical time for women.

I adored her house at Versailles and the way everything smelled of lavender and the way her windows would be half-open when it was raining outside and the way she'd arranged her zoo of topiary animals just outside the windows, which was
too
charming…but it was all done with authority. She called a spade a
spade
.

Elsie, naturally, had wonderful taste, like everyone I knew in Europe. Of course, one is born with good taste. It's very hard to acquire. You can acquire the
patina
of taste. But what Elsie Mendl had was something else that's particularly American—an appreciation of vulgarity. Vulgarity is a very important ingredient in life. I'm a great believer in vulgarity—if it's got vitality. A little bad taste is like a nice splash of paprika. We all need a splash of bad taste—it's hearty, it's healthy, it's physical. I think we could use
more
of it.
No
taste is what I'm against.

What catches my eye in a window is the hideous stuff—the
junk
. Plastic
ducks
! This was why Reed would never go walking in any city with me. “If you'd occasionally stop in front of a window where there might be
something…
” he said. “But as you go straight to the ugliest things, I won't walk with you unless we go straight to the park.”

Do you know anyone why buys plaster poodles? A few years ago Jerry Zipkin met me in Palm Beach. Now Jerry Zipkin's a good friend because he's constructive. He's destructive
and
constructive, and you know what
that
means. That means he pulls you apart—but then he puts you back together again
better
. I'll give you an example. I probably hadn't been in Palm Beach in thirty years. When I arrived Jerry said, “May I have the honor of taking you down Worth Avenue?” Well, I had a vista ahead that I could not have imagined! We saw plaster poodles, painted pink—quite a beautiful pink, actually, like a Du Barry rose—and we saw picture frames with plaster angels, painted pink, of course, and mirrors and shells. On the right side, the left side, the poodles, the angels. Everything was either plaster or jewelry—not jewels but jewelry. Apparently, they can't keep the
poodles in stock—not possibly. It was the
goddamnedest
thing. Endless. Forever. Who buys them? I was alarmed. “Jerry,” I said, “let's stop this. I think I've got the
hang
of it. Don't you think we've
had
Worth Avenue?”

“You haven't seen anything yet,” he said. “I'm going to take you to a place where I
doubt
you'll get in.”

So we went to a place on Mizner Court, I thinks it's called, and Jerry said, “Let me explain it to you—you have to be a member.”

“But Jerry,” I said, “I thought you were taking me to a shop.”

“It
is
a shop,” he said. “But the
chances
are—don't be offended—that you won't get in. We'll just have to see what we can arrange….”

Then…
we took an abrupt turn to the right, into a court; we rang the bell and a man came out. “Oh, Madame Vreeland,” he said—it couldn't be more American, the “Madame Vreeland.”…He gave me a big kiss. He turned out to be a leftover from my Seventh Avenue days. He presented me with a year's free membership. Very nice of him. Apparently for fifty dollars a year you could shop there! I couldn't believe it—you had to
pay
to
buy
.

The shop had an Oriental, rather exotic atmosphere about it—beautiful tisanes, imports from China, picture frames, lengths of Oriental cloth. I don't know why it was so private. Perhaps they didn't want the plaster poodle trade in there.

There's no such thing as a slack French face. Haven't you ever noticed that? I've given this a lot of thought, and I think it's because the French have to exercise their jaws and the inside of their mouths so much just to get the words
out
. The vowels demand so much. In fact, the French language has a lot to do with the handsomeness and the beauty of the French face. Talk one line in French and the whole inside of your face moves, whereas the English language leaves you a bit slack. I'll give you an example: Look in the mirror. Now say “
Ché-rie
!” Did you see what your face just did? Did you see all the exercise you got? Now try “Dear.” No exercise there. You're really on a dead horse. Don't you love that phrase? A friend of mine and I once got out of a movie house across from Bloomingdale's and we stepped into a taxi standing there at curbside. A guy leaned in the back window and said, “Hey, you're on a dead horse. No driver.” We looked, and sure enough there wasn't anybody in the front seat. Heaven knows where he was. In the movie house? Perhaps he was off having a hamburger.

But to get on with it, there never was a more French face than de Gaulle's. France was…de Gaulle. And, as you know, the French like the French very much. De Gaulle was full of the old
amour propre
, all right—he
loved
himself. And he was my hero, as he was for much of France and much of the world for many, many years.

In the middle sixties he'd fallen out of favor. I'd just arrived in Paris to cover the collections, and I was dining with the young married set—all very charming but rather
comme il faut
, shall we say. I was full of my own worth. So I said, “You know, when anything extraordinary happens here, you can't take it. Now take de Gaulle—”

“Oh!” They went to pieces. “You're not going to try and sell us
de Gaulle?
”

“I'm not selling,” I said, “I'm only telling you.”

“But we're thinking of our
country
!”

“I am, too. I don't live here, but I know heroes. You've got to have a hero. You've got to have a face. You've got to have a leading man. I'll give you an example: If
everyone
at this table was responsible for ordering the dinner, would we ever get a bite to eat?”

Then I went on: “How many people will come through the corridors—through the
bloodstream—
of history in the last fifty years the way de Gaulle will? Who fought so that France would continue to exist? When there was no place for him to fight here, who went to London and waited like an errand boy for Churchill to listen to him? Why, I don't understand why you're treating him the way you are. Do you think that whatever is bourgeois and ordinary and ‘so what?' is great? Anything
extra
ordinary…that's really what France stands for—the supreme logic of the extraordinary!”

I really gave them a bit of what for!

The next day I got a call from one of the chaps at the table.

“Diana, we believe in desire and passion. When anyone loves with your passion, they should be closer to the person they love, so I've arranged for you to go to his press conference. I will hold your seat for you. Come as soon as you can.”

As soon as I'd hung up the phone, I turned to Reed and told him what had happened. I said to Reed, “Chanel is opening this afternoon at three-thirty—I can't possibly do it!”

“Why?” he said.

“Well,” I said, “because Chanel is…I mean, after all, I'm
paid
to cover these collections.”

I had the most marvelous husband. He was always on the right side. He always knew what to do and what to say to me.

“You
are
? What's the matter with you? You're so cracked about this fellow de Gaulle, and you get this unique opportunity, everything arranged for you, and you bring up
Chanel
, whose clothes you've only been looking at since 1925!”

So I sent a message to Mademoiselle Chanel saying that, unfortunately, I'd broken a tooth on a piece of bread (which was a very good excuse—all Americans
do
on French crusts) and that I couldn't attend.

Well, I went to the press conference. I arrived at the Elysée Palace, but I didn't have my passport. “
Passeport, madame, passeport
!” the gendarmes said. It was rather windy, so their capes sort of blew this way and I sort of went that way and went right on in. How could they keep me out?

I took my seat in the second row. And then, in the most beautiful voice—trained, I have no doubt, by the Comédie Française—my hero said, “
Mesdames, messieurs….
”

I mean, the
beauty
of the language! The
pleading
for the morals! He had the most beautiful diction. And he had the hands of the Comédie Française, too—the hands of a leader, the hands, almost, of a messiah. It was the most thrilling experience.

I also made a great discovery. In the usual photograph you see of de Gaulle from the sixties he's almost totally bald. When I saw him I realized that his hairline was much closer to his face—a very distinguished hairline framing a small, completely refined, totally French face. Now, obviously, he wasn't done up for the photographs—this is the general of an army and the President of France! There was no monkey business
there
.

When I got back to the Crillon, where we were staying, after these splendid hours of being a part of this glorious man, my hero, there were red roses waiting for me—red red roses. They were from
Coco Chanel—the kind Chanel always sent, the kind that open, not the kind that shrivel up into a little walnut and die—and amongst them was the most charming note in Mademoiselle's own hand: “
Chère Diane, My plane waits for you at Le Bourget. It will take you to Lausanne, where you will see my dentist, the greatest in the world
.”

Of course, I immediately had to send my own flowers and a note saying what a charming thought it had been on her part and that in the tooth department it hadn't been as bad as I had originally thought, et cetera, et cetera, and I would be able to come and see her show the next afternoon.

The next day she'd forgotten all about the tooth. I didn't have to explain
anything
. Which was fortunate. Chanel could not abide de Gaulle and shouted it from every rooftop.

Coco Chanel always fitted me in her private atelier six flights up in the house on the rue Cambon. First, there was the beautiful rolling staircase up to the salon floor—the famous mirrored staircase—and after that, you were practically on a
stepladder
for five more flights. It used to
kill
me. As soon as I'd arrive at the front door of the house, there'd be someone waiting, saying, “
Mademoiselle vous attend, madame
.”

My God, I used to get up there so breathless! And then I'd get fitted. Coco was a nut on armholes. She never, ever got a armhole quite,
quite
perfect, the way she wanted it. She was always snipping and taking out sleeves, driving the tailors absolutely crazy. She'd put pins in me so I'd be contorted, and she'd be talking and talking and giving me all sorts of philosophical observations, such as “Live with rigor and vigor” or “Grow old like a man,” and I'd say, “I think most men grow old like women, myself,” and she'd say, “No, you're wrong, they've got logic, they've got a reality to them”—with my arm up in the air the whole time! Then if she
really
wanted to talk, she'd put pins in under both arms so I simply couldn't move, much less get a word in!

She watched the collections from the top of the mirrored stairs. She used to crouch there all alone, and when you went up to see her afterward, she knew
exactly
what you thought.

She was extraordinary. The
alertness
of the woman! The
charm
! You would have fallen in love with her. She was mesmerizing, strange, alarming, witty…you can't compare anyone with Chanel. They haven't got the
chien
! Or the chic. She was French, don't forget—totally French!

Where she came from in France is anyone's guess. She said one thing one day and another thing the next. She was a peasant—and a genius. Peasants and geniuses are the only people who count, and she was both.

The Duke of Westminster and Grand Duke Dmitri were the two men in her life. Between them she learned everything there is to know about luxury, and no one's ever had a greater sense of luxury than Coco Chanel.

The Grand Duke Dmitri was
the
handsomest…the hang of his suits! His leg in a
boot
! Oh
God
! He was more interested in fishing and shooting—like all Russian men—but he was a beauty! Now, whether he killed Rasputin or not, who knows? He never lived out of his father's palace until he came to Paris, and then I don't think he had a bed to himself, he was so poor. Chanel discovered him and reinstated him; she got him beautiful rooms and wonderful valets and marvelous flannels and all the things that a gentleman likes. And from him she learned all about great jewels and great living. Then she went off with the Duke of Westminster. He was desperately in love with her, but she refused to marry him. She pointed out that there had already been three Duchesses of Westminster, but there would always be just one Coco Chanel. She learned about afternoon teas from him and about magnificently maintained country houses. She rode with him and became a splendid horsewoman. The Duke had about seven properties in England, the greatest property owner in the world save the Russians in the days of the Czars. Such elegance! Every inch a Duke! He had his shoelaces ironed every day. Insisted on it. But then that's nothing. Shoelaces were nothing to iron.

He was named after a horse—Bendor, who won the Derby. Lots of people were named after horses. One of my great friends in London was Lady Morvyth Menson. I asked, “For goodness' sakes,
where'd you get this name Morvyth?” She said, “Well, you see, my father was off racing somewhere when I was born. My mother was dying, and there was no one in charge but the servants. ‘We've got to name this child
something
.'” So they called her Morvyth after one of the polo ponies. Terribly pretty Welsh name, isn't it?

Well, most people get most things from something—I don't say
everything
, but most things. From the English, and from her life with the Duke of Westminster, Chanel learned luxury, and she copied the clean turnout of Eton boys and the men at shoots. And from Russia she copied the Romanov pearls. Dmitri got out of Russia the way you'd get out of a fire—but he had the pearls. He gave them to her, and she made copies of them which the women of the world have known and worn ever since, whether artificial or cultured—that long, long string….

And the Russian clothes! I remember now that Coco used to go to Moscow quite regularly in the thirties. When I was there a few years ago with Tom Hoving, arranging the show of Russian costumes for the Metropolitan, I went to the Historical Museum, where I saw all the rich peasant dresses. When I got back to the hotel, Tom asked me what I'd seen. “Well,” I said, “I saw a lot of marvelous clothes—most of which I've worn myself.” He looked at me as if I were demented. “Actually,” I said, “
literally…
. These were Chanel's clothes of the thirties—the big skirts, the small jackets, the headdresses….”

A woman dressed by Chanel back in the twenties and the thirties—like a woman dressed by Balenciaga in the fifties and sixties—walked into a room and had a dignity, an authority, a thing beyond a question of taste.

I'm not speaking of the late Chanel, who amused herself by dressing the streets of Paris. When she reopened after the war, she wanted to see her suits all over the place. They say she showed the clothes to the copyists before she showed them to the customers or the press. She had reached the point in life where she'd done everything
—everything—
and she had to amuse herself.

These postwar suits of Chanel were designed God knows
when
, but the tailoring, the line, the shoulders, the underarms, the
jupe—
never too short, never making a fool of a woman when she sits down—is even today the right thing to wear.

When I first became friends with her in the middle thirties, Coco was extraordinarily good-looking. She was a bright, dark gold color—wide faced, with a snorting nose, just like a little bull, and deep Dubonnet-red cheeks. Before the war she lived in a house on the Faubourg St. Honoré. It had an enormous garden with fountains, the most beautiful salons opening on the garden, and something like fifty-four Coromandel screens shaping these rooms into the most extraordinary
allées
of charm. There she received the
world
. It was a proper society she had around her—artists, musicians, poets—and everyone was fascinated by her. Cocteau adored her, Bébe Bérard adored her, Picasso…who in those days drove around Paris with his latest mistress by his side in a bright yellow Hispano-Suiza with a hammer and sickle painted on the side. Definitely part of the scene!

Coco Chanel became a figure in all of this—Paris society—entirely through wit and taste. Her taste was what you'd call
formidable
. She was irresistible. Absolutely. About a year before she died, I got an invitation to dine with her at her apartment on the rue Cambon. It was for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Niki de Gunzburg had called me up and said, “Did you get this invitation from Coco? Well, then, I'll take you, because we're only going to be six, and we'll have a wonderful time.”

I'd been so often in that marvelous drawing room of hers, that splendid dining room. The fire was burning. Wonderful bronze animals on the floor.