D.V. (17 page)

It amuses me, when I look at magazines today, to see the credit line “Perfume by….” We never did this at
Vogue
or
Harper's Bazaar
. We were very square in those days—believe it or not—and very literal. But I understand the principle. It's the repetition of the name, the name, the
name…
it's selling! And scent, although you can't
see
it, is as important to a well-turned-out woman as her makeup, her nail varnish, her pearls….

Chanel No. 5, to me, is still the ideal scent for a woman. She can wear it anywhere, anytime, and everybody—husbands, beaus, taxi drivers
—everybody
loves it.
No one
has gone beyond Chanel No. 5.

Chanel was the first couturier who added scent to the ward-robe of the woman. No designer had ever thought of such a thing. Chanel No. 5 is a totally marvelous product—best bottle, stopper, box—and, of course, still one of the
great
scents. You surely remember: “What do you sleep in, Miss Monroe?”

“Chanel No. 5.”

Do you know the story of why it's called “No. 5”? Chanel didn't know what to name it. A number of scents to choose from had
arrived at the rue Cambon. Coco called up one of her great Russian friends—a very aristocratic, superior man—and asked him, “Help me to choose. I have a migraine. My head is in quarters. You've
got
to do this. Come over instantly.”

He arrived and was taken to the bedroom, where Coco was lying on the bed, barely able to
speak
, she was in such pain.

“Over there is a stack of ten handkerchiefs,” she said. “Place them along the mantelpiece. Put a sample of scent on each handkerchief, and when the alcohol's blown off, let me know.”

He did this, and she pulled herself off the bed to go over to the mantel; she picked each one up in turn. First one: “
C'est impossible
!” Second: “
Horrible
!” The third: “
Pas encore
.” The fourth: “
Non
.” Then, suddenly: “
Ça va, ça va
!” It was the fifth handkerchief! With those great instincts she was correct even when she was
practically
unconscious.

The two best men's scents in the world were both made by Rigaud. One was called L'Eau Merveilleux and the other was called Cananga. These were
strong
scents. They reminded me of marvelous Edwardian gentlemen in Paris early in this century. When my sister and I were children, we used to be brought in to curtsy to our parents' friends and to kiss them goodnight, and it was a
pleasure
. Many of the men had whiskers and rather longish hair—this wasn't an American stockbroking group—and they all smelled the same. It had bay rum in it, Florida water…it was
clean
. It was a healthy smell—good for the skin, good for the soul…and
strong
.

There's a whole school now that says the scent must be faint. This is
ridiculous
. I'm speaking from the experience of a
lifetime
.

I always carry purse scent—that way I'm never without it. Do you notice any scent on me now? Don't come any closer—if you have to
sniff
like a
hound
, it's not enough!

Napoleon's valet, I'm told, every morning, took literally a
whole
bottle of scent, L'Eau Impériale—one of those divine Napoleonic flacons with bees all over it—and poured it
right
down the
Emperor's body.
One
bottle! Now whether it was a pint bottle or a two-pint bottle…don't ask me. But this is something I understand
totally
.

You should never put scent on immediately after your bath. That's the biggest mistake going—there's nothing for it to
cling
to. I must admit that Gertie Lawrence, who lived three terraces down from our house in Hanover Terrace when we lived in London—we played tennis together in Regent's Park every morning—used to take a big bottle of Molyneux perfume,
smash
it against the side of her tub…and
throw
the contents in the water. Of course, you don't get anything out of a tub with perfume in it—it has no oil in it, only alcohol. This was just a gesture of glory…she was madly extravagant.

Now Patou, I remember, when he put Joy on the market, did the most extraordinary thing—he advertised it as the
most
expensive scent
ever
made. Do you want to know something? Those advertisements
made
Joy. After that,
every
woman in America—but
everyone—
had to have Joy. Perfume
is
an extravagance. But it's odd that Americans, who God knows are an extravagant people, have never used scents properly. They buy bottles, but they don't splash it on. Chanel always used to say, keep a bottle in your bag, and
refresh
yourself with it continually.

Even more important, much more important, than scent are your feet. If your feet are correct, you have elegance. If you haven't got the right foot—forget it. I mean, you can have on groundgrippers, if that's your line of country, or you can have a foot problem, but there should be something
absolutely correct
about the foot.

Elegance is everything in a shoe. I can't wear readymades. It couldn't be otherwise—I have a short, fat foot with a high instep like a Spanish dancer's. Therefore, all my shoes have to be made to order.

This is a serious subject with me. At
last…
we're on a serious subject. This isn't fashion stuff—this is the
real thing
. I always say, “I hope to God I die in a town with a good tailor, a good shoemaker, and perhaps someone who's interested in a little
quelque chose d'autre
”—but all I
really
care about is that shoemaker. Everyone
should have a shoemaker they go to as seriously as they go to their doctor. I've been very fortunate in that I've always had the best shoemakers in the world.

Budapest used to have wonderful shoemakers. In Paris in the thirties there was a great Italian shoemaker I was mad about—Perugia. His wife was a blonde
so
ravishing—she made Mistinguett kind of musty, if you know what I mean. She was behind a cash register on the rue de la Paix: “
Bonjour, madame
”—you know the type. She was in there so he could keep an eye on her. He made me low-heeled shoes—the kind I still wear—when everyone else was in high heels. I've always thought high heels were the
end
, though they do arch the leg if the leg is sufficiently long.

Dal Co, in Rome, was marvelous to me in the sixties. They had a man there who never looked me in the face. He only looked at my feet. That's how
absorbed
he was in what he was doing.

Then there is my darling Roger Vivier, whom I'd known from before the war when he worked here in New York. The shoes he made after he'd gone out on his own in Paris are the most beautiful shoes I've ever known. In the “Vanity Fair” show at the Museum, I put some of them beside eighteenth-century French shoes—shoes of his made entirely of layers of tulle, shoes of hummingbird feathers, shoes embroidered with tiny black pearls and coral, all with exquisite heels of lacquer—and the level of quality was
identical
. We'd spend four and a half hours adjusting his narrow, built-up heels. And no one ever got a sole as flat—as flat as tongues—as old Roger Vivier. You should come and study my shoes of his one day. It's a lesson in perfection.

These shoes have been awfully good to me. I've been wearing some of them for twenty years—that's how well they're made. Also, I happen to be very light on my feet because of my ballet training. And when it comes to shoes I'm a nut on
maintenance
.

Unshined shoes are the
end
of civilization. It happens that all the men in my life—my father, my husband, my two sons, my two grandsons—have been big shoeshine boys. Reed had shoes of Russian calf, and in London he had our butler polish them for five
years or so with cream and rhinoceros horn until they were the
essence
of really “contented” leather. Only
then
did he wear them. I don't know if Russian calf still exists, but don't forget—everything we did in those days was for
forever
. And it was a very normal thing for English gents to use rhinoceros horn on fine leather. Leather is alive and lives as it is kept.

For years Yvonne used the rhinoceros horn on my shoes. A highly emotional French lady, she wouldn't lift a finger to polish the furniture, but she meticulously stained and polished all my shoes after each wearing—including the soles. Why, I wouldn't
dream
of wearing shoes with untreated soles. I mean, you go out to dinner and suddenly you lift your foot and the soles aren't impeccable…what could be more ordinary?

And footsteps! I can't stand the vulgarity of a woman who makes a noise when she walks. It's all right for soldiers, but when I was growing up the quintessence of breeding in a lady was a quiet footstep. Well, it is to me still. Do you know that I let a brilliant worker go at
Vogue
because of the way she walked—the
clank
of those heels! She went to live in Paris after I talked to her. I said, “I can't stand your footsteps. I can't!” But, of course, what it was with her was anger; it is a form of anger if you can't control the foot. I promise you, the
heavy tread
is a form of anger. You ought to pull up your instep, tense the leg, perhaps wear a little lower heel. Or else just take the trouble to walk a little more carefully. And if you can't do that, you
have
to go to Paris! As Napoleon said, “Go to Paris and become a woman.”

I don't especially enjoy going out to evenings where someone gets up and performs—or where there's entertainment. I much prefer talk. Good conversation is rare and becoming increasingly so. Nowadays, the custom is to go to a restaurant where it's impossible to get a conversation going in all that din. It's totally wonderful when you can experience an evening at someone's house—a small, intimate gathering—when a good talker takes over and stimulates a good argument. A little restaurant? Nothing more tiresome. Good cooks, jolly fellows—that's what make a dinner.

My favorite dinner partners are the English because they never laugh. I am so spellbound and overcome by the mood they create through their language. Their wit is what is so supreme. A funny person is funny only for so long, but a wit can sit down and go on being spellbinding forever. One is not meant to laugh. One stays quiet and
marvels
. Spontaneously witty talk is without question the most fascinating entertainment there is.

Noel Coward was great at it. Such a marvelous raconteur. “The other day…” and everyone at the table would lean forward to listen. It's always dramatic, because all English are actors, and there are very few actors who are not English.

What I'm talking about is general conversation. Country-house stuff. I adore someone who has the attention of the whole table. Too much these days there's this ritual at dinner of talking to the person on your right and then turning to your left. And people are much too keen on even-steven numbers at dinner—“Oh my God, I haven't got anybody for so-and-so.” That's ridiculous. Getting the numbers right never made a good dinner.

I don't think men in this country take a social evening seriously enough—that is, they tend to take them for granted and don't arrive with much flair to offer. Perhaps they're too exhausted from the day's work to provide it. It's too bad. Men are more social than women. They enjoy the
divertissement
of an evening, the change of pace from the work of the day. But you can't tell
me
that dining out has become a great art. We might get the gift of it back—if some of the men were English!

Of course, it helps if there's some preposterousness in the air…something outrageous or memorable. Greta Garbo always brought a spark that ignited everyone around the table. A great gusher of language. Garbo never called anyone by their first name. “Mrs.
Vreeeelandddd
.” Everyone called her “Miss G.” Her voice, of course, was beautiful, and seductive. Totally seductive. She adored Reed, and Reed's overcoats. She'd walk up and down our apartment in Reed's overcoats, not to be admired but to enjoy being in them. She'd take one off and then she'd go into his closet and get into another one.

Cole Porter was another who brightened things up
totally
when he was around. Sometimes if Reed and I were invited to dinner he'd make up a little rhyme about us and play it for us on the piano. Nothing serious, of course…just as a pleasant surprise for a half minute or so while we were getting ice for the drinks. He owned a house in Paris on the rue Monsieur, one of those rounded eighteenth-century streets which looked as if it had been designed by a swirl of
smoke
, and you'd ring the concierge's bell and the door would swing open and you'd find yourself looking through an orchard of apple trees at the kind of half-timbered house you'd find in Normandy. You'd go in and he'd play this little ditty.

They also had a palazzo in Venice.
Marvelous
. At six in the morning he'd go out with his gondolier and he'd change positions with him—the gondolier would sit in the bow of the gondola in Cole's seat, and Cole would stand in the back, with the big oar, and wearing a little navy pullover, and the little fluttering ribbons in his gondolier's hat, and he would feel the rhythm of the gondola. The gondolier would correct him. Isn't that divine? Everything with him was rhythm. That's why he's so contagious; that's why he never dies.

He was just the most charming man you could ever have around. He looked so appetizing. Such a gentleman, such a
mondaine
chap. A bit of all right. In fact, he was what you'd call a big-time gent. He came from Peru, Indiana. But there was nothing local about him. He had the
patina
of the world. Actually, I'm crazy about Indiana. So many people with style come from Indiana—not that I can give you a long list, but it's true. Cole always had a little patter—sparkling, amusing.

I was staying at the same house party in Long Island when he had that terrible accident with the horse. The horse had reared while crossing an asphalt road, frightened by an approaching automobile, and lost its balance and fell on top of Cole. Crushed both legs. And that was it. It started a whole thing with Cole—survival.

After his accident I think he went through twenty-eight operations over a period of something like thirty years. Reed and I saw a lot of him during his operations. We'd have divine teas at the Harkness Pavilion. He had his own valet. Canapés were served, lovely tea, and a shaker of drinks, all to keep it gay, because he was a merriment boy, of course. Full of it. And then his wife died—Linda Lee of Louisville, Kentucky—a famous beauty and very rich; though he made three times the money, he used to joke with her about it. And then the amputation came.

And then he stopped
speaking
. But he kept on living. He couldn't bear not being with people. He'd ask one or two of his friends
up to see him for lunch or dinner in his beautiful apartment at the Waldorf. You'd sit there and talk away at him, and he simply didn't speak. I'd come in, he'd be sitting on the sofa, I'd give him a kiss on the forehead, I'd get my little vodka—this would be at dinner—and then Reed and I would put on the act we'd rehearsed in the cab going to the Waldorf. We'd say, “No one has more beautiful books than Cole—look how beautifully bound they are.” Et cetera. Et cetera. Dinner would then be announced, and Reed and I would leave the library and go into the dining room, but we wouldn't sit down. We wouldn't be anywhere near the table; we'd be at the other end of the room examining the beautiful Chinese wallpaper. And I'd say to Reed, “And Saturday afternoon…wasn't that the funniest movie you ever saw?!” Cole would be carried in, he couldn't walk, but we would see none of it. When he couldn't walk, he wouldn't talk; but he wouldn't be alone, he couldn't stand it. He'd be placed in his chair and he'd just sit.

One night I thought, I'm going to give this situation a little bit of a push. So I stopped at the drugstore near my office on Fifty-sixth Street. I bought some eyelashes—the longest lashes you ever saw; they were goosefeathers, and you glued them right on the lid with a piece of adhesive. They were about three inches long! They were supposed to be trimmed to whatever length you'd care to have eyelashes. Naturally, I didn't trim them at all. So I walked into Cole's; I got my drink and told him how well he looked, how happy I was to see him. He said nothing, as usual. At dinner, we went through one course, two courses—Reed and I chatting away—and then I said, “You know something, Cole, you haven't mentioned my eyelashes.” And he suddenly said, “Well, I can
see
them.” It was the
only
sentence he said all night long.

I don't want you to think that I'm being in any way critical of Cole. People were delighted to go, even though they knew they were going to have to go through with this charade. It was difficult, and yet one wanted to say “Bravo, bravo” all the time. At the end I'd say, “We've got to go, my darling Cole. As usual, what a lovely evening you've given us, and
what
a good time.”

Cole died in 1964. Reed died two years later. He wasn't ill very long. He was only in the hospital six weeks. One Sunday morning he packed his suitcase with some dressing gowns and went to the hospital to have some tests. I was at my desk at
Vogue
. The doctor called me up. The tests were in. He was on his way to tell Reed.

I said, “What do you take my husband for—an idiot? Don't you think he knows?”

“Have you discussed it with him?”

I said, “Of course not! Why would he and I discuss cancer?”

The doctor said, “Mrs. Vreeland, you're not at all modern. We always tell our patients.”

I went to the hospital that evening. Always, Reed had been in the hall to meet me: marvelous foulard, and wonderful this and that. Not this time. He was in bed with his face to the wall. So I said hello.

He didn't answer. So I sat down.

Twenty minutes later he turned, “Well, they've told you and they've told me, so now it's on the table. Nothing to be done about it.” I didn't even answer him.

But I don't think of this. I don't think of anything except how wonderful our life was together—the trips around Europe in our wonderful Bugatti and all the wonderful things we saw on those trips, the luxury in which we lived every day until all hours of the night, the perfume, the flowers….