Mademoiselle Chanel (25 page)

I
thought being trapped on an ocean liner with Misia would be a purgatory. Even at La Pausa, with all the extra room, the house often felt too small with her in it, strewing her belongings wherever they happened to fall, chattering ceaselessly about everything and nothing, silence being anathema to her, not the great solace it was for me. I also fretted about leaving my dogs, Pita and Poppée, who were old now, almost thirteen, plagued by arthritis and bad teeth, but as devoted to me as I was to them. Joseph had convinced me a long voyage would not be good for them; he’d take excellent care of them, he assured me, as did Cocteau, who, while sullen that Misia and I were leaving without him (another worry of mine, as he was still fragile), promised my dogs would be with him at all times.

Yet once we boarded the SS
Europa
on March 1, 1931, with the Atlantic around us and nothing to do but stroll the decks, dine, read, and gossip, I discovered an experience much like the one I’d shared in Moulins with Adrienne—intimate time with a friend, during which I could relax and forget my obligations.

Misia reveled in the novelty, and we found ourselves giggling as we sat on deck under an awning, drinks in hand, as I told her about Bendor’s visit with his fiancée to my house.

“You should have seen her expression. She looked as if I might eat her alive. Bendor made some excuse and left us alone, the coward! If I’d said I disapproved, I rather think he’d have informed her the wedding was off.”

“But you didn’t.” Misia gave me a pointed look from over her sunglasses. “You wanted him to marry her because that way, he couldn’t marry you.”

I shrugged, sipping my cocktail. “She reminded me of that custard the British love—all cream and sugar, without any spice. I arranged myself like a queen on my chaise lounge, wearing as much of my jewelry as I could,” I said as Misia snorted. “Pita and Poppée were on the chairs, so she had to perch on a stool at my feet. I didn’t say a word. Finally, she blurted out that her papa had given her one of my necklaces for Christmas and she loved it. Can you believe it? I made her describe the necklace to me.”

“And . . . ?” said Misia, her teeth showing. “Was it yours?”

“Oh, yes. But I told her it couldn’t possibly be, because I would never allow anything so vulgar to carry my name. She was mortified. After that, our conversation was over. Later, Bendor called me to say she had found me very much what she expected.”

Misia cackled. “She thought you were a monster!”

“Naturally.” I gazed out to the ocean. “But she’ll never forget me, either.”

Misia turned pensive. When I did not speak, she said, “Do you regret it? You could have been his wife. He was in love with you; I believe he still is. A man only brings his fiancée to his mistress for approval when he wants her to tell him she’s unsuitable.”

I contemplated this. Had Bendor truly hoped I would crush his resolve by declaring Loelia Ponsonby as insipid as pudding? It had occurred to me at the time; I had known within minutes of meeting her that she would either bore him to distraction or lead him on a merry dance to his grave so she could enjoy life as his widow. I could have ruined his illusions, or even retained him as a lover after the wedding. But I had not. I told him she was lovely and let them proceed to their nuptials.

“No,” I finally said. “I don’t regret it. God knows, I want love. But
the moment I must choose between a man and my dresses, I choose my dresses. He would have insisted that I stop working and I could never do that. There have been other duchesses of Westminster, but there can only be one Coco Chanel.”

Misia reached over, squeezing my hand. “Everyone admires you for it. Me most of all. Look at me, thrice divorced, without much to my name. I am almost sixty. Who will ever love me again?”

“I love you,” I said, and I realized that I did. She was my one constant. As infuriating as she could be, she knew me better than anyone else, and in her own inimitable way, was unfailingly honest with me, even when I did not appreciate it.

“Yes, well. Pity we’re not lesbians,” she rejoined, and as I chuckled, she added, “Besides, if it’s any consolation, you did the right thing. Bendor is not the gallant knight he seems. Did you read the papers before we left? No? Well, he gave his new duchess a fine wedding present. He told the king that his own brother-in-law William Lygon, Earl of Beauchamp, is a homosexual, and ruined the man’s reputation. It was a disgrace. Lygon was obliged to relinquish his political duties by the king’s order and his wife petitioned for a divorce.”

I stared at her, aghast. “There was nothing in the newspapers about that!”

She gave a mischievous smile. “Wasn’t there? Then I must have heard it somewhere. He is quite the barbarian, your Bendor. He has also given several speeches in Parliament about how Jewish greed brought about the collapse of the stock market in America, and if Europe doesn’t do something to stop them, we’re headed for the same. He is not someone you want to be associated with; he’d alienate all your friends. In time, you would despise him for it.”

Her pronouncement unsettled me. For all her apparent self-involvement, Misia had always cultivated an ear for scandal, so I did not doubt her report. Moreover, I had heard Bendor make disparaging remarks about Jews; but then, so many in his circle did. And like Boy, he nursed a paranoiac distaste for homosexuals, but again it was so common among men of
his class, I had scarcely paid it any mind. Besides, when he met my eclectic mix of friends, many of whom were Jewish or queer or both, he had seemed amenable enough, even if he had suggested, albeit innocently, that Cocteau write about his dogs.

I shuddered, the air turning chill, the ocean whipped into froth by a rising wind. A shadow came over me. Turning to Misia, I said, “Let’s go inside and nap until dinner. I’m tired.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “So am I.”

N
ew York was a bewildering fury, a multitude of impossibly tall buildings raking the sky and thousands of people scurrying below them; hundreds of flashing signs and an endless barrage of car horns and shouting, a deafening cacophony that made me want to cover my ears and hide.

It did not help that I disembarked with a cold that had me feverish and sneezing, the first time in years I could recall being ill. Misia fed me hot soup while I sweated out the fever in our hotel suite, even as hordes of reporters besieged the lobby in hopes of catching a glimpse of me.

Once I felt sufficiently recovered, I donned one of my red jersey dresses with white cuffs and rounded collar, and invited the reporters to my room, hiding my astonishment at their eagerness to interview me. All they wanted to know was what I planned to do in Hollywood.

“I have not brought my scissors,” I told them, “I’m simply going to see what the studio can offer. It’s by invitation, without commitment.” By the next morning, the papers were reporting all sorts of erroneous declarations attributed to me, including the remark, Misia read aloud, that “long hair would be back in style” and I found “men who wore scent disgusting.” The papers also predicted I would find Hollywood a challenge, given my preferred method of work, during which I designed a dress, saw it to the
workroom, and rarely touched it again. Mr. Goldwyn’s film stars, noted the
New York Times,
would demand more personalized attention from Chanel.

“I don’t doubt it,” I grumbled.

The subsequent twenty-hour train ride to California was a claustrophobic misery made more so by glimpses of tar-shack towns and vagabonds at every stop, the visible poverty reminding me so much of my childhood that I pulled the blinds shut. The accompanying reporters continued to barrage me, as if I might disclose some master plan to drape every actress in sight in tweed and jersey.

Los Angeles was so . . .
bright.
I had no other description for it. Although it was only late March, the sprawling metropolis seemed ablaze under its merciless sun, so white and vast it was like a movie set itself. Everything in America seemed oversized to me—the buildings and cars, the numbers of people, the bewildering array of products in storefronts. Los Angeles epitomized this excess, snarling with traffic, the endless beaches full of hopefuls and has-beens, with the bold Hollywoodland sign overseeing the city like a deity.

It had been less than two weeks and I missed Paris already. My cold had not fully abated. I wanted to hole up with Misia in the immense suite in the Chateau Marmont that Goldwyn had reserved for me but I was obliged to attend an ostentatious reception, where I sat, sniffling at his side, as he presented an assortment of his talent. I was surprised by how small boned these famous sirens of the screen were in their slinky lamé, practically curtsying as they gushed, “Oh, Miss Chanel, you are absolutely my favorite designer!” It was obvious they’d never worn a thing of mine in their lives. I might have started laughing at the rehearsed ridiculousness of it all had I not been trying to keep from sneezing. I was only amused when I met Greta Garbo, whose sad eyes and surprisingly big feet caught my attention, as did her whisper, “I would be nowhere without your raincoat and hat, mademoiselle,” alluding to my rain gear for women. I was supposed to dress her for her next film.

The following day, I toured Goldwyn’s cavernous soundstages, glaringly illuminated by banks of overhead lights. I was impressed. How could
I not be? He had made millions by peddling fantasies. But I was not impressed enough to believe this was where I belonged. In fact, as the days passed and I found myself obliged to read horrid scripts to get a sense of the characters for whom I would design, I began to feel something I had not experienced since my earliest days: insecurity.

I knew my clothes worked. Thousands of women could not be wrong. But could I translate my vision of restraint for a medium that thrived on exaggeration, where artificial grandeur replaced reality? I had built my career on comfort and style; even as my couture became inordinately expensive, I firmly believed that fashion did not succeed until women on the streets adopted it. Now I was expected to produce designs that must not only remain relevant during the two years it took to complete filming but also exalt the very stars who wore them, women reared on plumage and sequins, who reveled in excess and unattainable ideals.

It was the most perplexing dilemma I’d faced; from the beginning, I had the disquieting sense that I would fail.

But Goldwyn insisted, introducing me to everyone, and the flattery proved overwhelming. Here, I was indeed a legend. I signed for a year, pocketing the million-dollar fee on the condition that I could do the required work in Paris and send my designs to fitters in Hollywood for completion.

With the designs for my first film approved, I hauled Misia back to New York. There, I again submitted to the onslaught of reporters and meetings with editors who covered my work.

Vogue
escorted me on a tour of New York’s fashion district. In the upscale department stores on Fifth Avenue, I discovered my perfume No. 5 selling at such a brisk rate they could barely keep it in stock. My suspicion was aroused. The Wertheimer brothers, with whom I had signed a contract for 10 percent of the proceeds, were obviously making a killing off my name. I decided to consult a lawyer when I returned to Paris. The Wertheimers could not expect me to be satisfied with a meager percentage of what was obviously a fortune in sales.

I was also fascinated, and appalled, by the burgeoning trade in ready-to-wear.
In a discount department store called S. Klein on Union Square, while Misia yawned and tapped her foot, I watched women browse through apparel hung on plain racks, trying on the dresses in barren dressing rooms under signs warning that shoplifters would be arrested. To my disbelief, some of the clothing was marked down to under a dollar! The turnover, my escort from
Vogue
explained, was merciless. If an item failed to sell in two months, it was sold at a base rate to make room for new merchandise—of which there was an endless supply. Mass production in assorted sizes by large sweatshops had replaced the time-consuming process of samples followed by fittings. Finally stepping to a rack, I forced myself to sift through it. Within minutes, with a shudder I located one of my own designs in basic cotton, almost identical, right down to the white piqué cuffs.

“This is mine,” I exclaimed. “I showed this very dress last year in London.”

The escort grimaced. “Manufacturers send spies to couture shows, pretending to be reporters. They sketch everything they see. The clothes are then reproduced in cheap fabrics with modifications like zippers. See? That dress has a zipper up its side, which I am sure was not part of your original design.”

It wasn’t, and I found the novelty as horrifying as it was clever. For five dollars and a zipper, whoever bought this would be wearing Chanel, if not by label, then by association.

I was staring at the future. I recognized it at once, with the same jolt of insight that had propelled me to open my first shop. The Depression had spawned many changes and I could not afford to ignore this one. Ready-to-wear was how the majority of women would soon buy their clothes, and I embarked on my trip home in April 1931 with a new goal.

Hollywood had not suited me and, frankly, neither had America, but it reinforced my long-held belief that to resist progress was to risk extinction.

OTHER UNPLEASANT SURPRISES
awaited me in Paris.

The first and most devastating was the loss of both my Pita and
Poppée. Both had become increasingly feeble, Joseph informed me, but they had waited patiently for my return before succumbing within days of each other. I wept as I had not since Boy, feeling his death all over again. I had my dogs cremated and their ashes sealed in white boxes, which I kept in a cabinet. For days afterward, I could barely speak or venture outside, until Bendor telephoned to invite me to London and I sobbed over the line to him. He promised to buy me a Great Dane puppy from the next litter that a friend of his bred. It was typical of him to think I could simply replace what had been lost with something new, but at least he didn’t chide me for being ridiculous, as Misia did when she found me crying.

The next surprise cut deep. The Italian Schiaparelli had had such resounding success that she dared to open a shop near mine on the place Vendôme. After hovering at the edge of distinction, she seized inspiration from the Spanish surrealist painter Salvador Dalí, featuring ludicrous trompe l’oeil designs on sweaters and shockingly pink gowns printed with lobster motifs, as if women were food platters.

I laughed when I saw the coverage of her new collection in the 1932 issue of
Vogue,
albeit through my teeth. “It’s an exercise in how to make women look foolish,” I declared, even as I seethed that while the magazine fawned over Schiaparelli’s irreverent style, they relegated me to a sidebar with the comment that I had revolutionized Hollywood by putting Ina Claire in white silk pajamas. An editorial in
The New Yorker
declared, “Chanel wants a lady to look like a lady, but Hollywood wants a lady to look like two ladies,” lauding me as a designer of principle in an amoral environment. Still, the overall message remained clear:

I had failed to make an impression.

Adding salt to the wound, the pictures I designed for flopped. The fashion gazettes of Paris delighted in reporting how Chanel could not guarantee box-office gold. In a fit of rage, I fled to Bendor’s London townhome at his invitation. I had been right to assume my work was not meant for film but the confirmation proved bitter. Though I was a million dollars richer, it marked the first major failure of my career.

“Hollywood wouldn’t know elegance if it spat on them,” I cried, striding
about with my drink in hand as Bendor eyed me from his armchair. His marriage had already faltered; his young bride found his lifestyle intolerable and refused to join him on his endless yacht excursions or hunting expeditions, so he eagerly welcomed me. He would have taken me to bed, too, had I not been in such a state.

“I’ve had to cut my prices nearly in half because of this damn Depression. And those Wertheimers—,” I cried, stabbing my cigarette in the air, “they rob me blind! My perfume is earning millions in America alone, and they refuse to renegotiate our contract with my lawyer.”

He drawled, “What did you expect, Coco? Jews rob everyone blind.” He stood, then moved to the bar to refill my drink, which I gulped down. As he chipped more ice, he added, “You should never have signed a deal with them. The Jews are a menace.”

I paused. Misia’s assessment of him had been accurate, it seemed, but his stance still took me aback. “They did get my perfume into the department stores,” I found myself saying, in sudden contrition. “Number Five is distributed across America. Without their contacts, I would never—”

“They are not responsible for your success,” he interrupted. “You created the perfume and they profit by it. Jews always do that. They never do any work; they merely find the easiest way to drain money from others, like leeches. Let me recommend you to another lawyer for advice here in London. You need to sever your contract with them before it’s too late.”

I paused, my glass half lifted to my lips. A sudden chill went through me, reminding me of what I had felt that afternoon on the
Europa
with Misia. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? Adolf Hitler is about to be appointed chancellor in Germany. He has an agenda to deal with the Marxist threat and the Jews who bolster it.” Bendor returned to his chair and the table beside it, heaped with books. He withdrew a volume. “This is his treatise,
Mein Kampf
. You should read it. It is brilliant; he writes of the Jewish conspiracy to gain world leadership, abetted by America. Germany’s woes are the Weimar Republic, Jews, and social democrats, as well as the bloody Marxists. He will abolish them all if he can.”

I was aghast. “The Germans nearly destroyed us the last time. Would you advocate their resurgence, after everything they did?”

“We need a strong Europe,” was his terse reply. “Germany is part of it. Hitler does not want war with us. He simply wants to rebuild his country for those who deserve it.”

I forced out a shrug, setting down my untouched drink. “What do I know of politics? I’m only a designer. But there is something you could do for me,” I went on, recalling my disturbing experiences in New York. “I want to do something unprecedented—an exclusive presentation of one-of-a-kind designs that garment manufacturers can copy under my license. I can present it here, in your home, and invite everyone we know. That ought to give Schiaparelli a run for her money. She can’t afford to give away her ludicrously expensive designs for free.”

He smiled. “You know I’m always willing to help you.” Setting the book aside, he came to me. “And that other lawyer I mentioned, you will meet with him? I think you should. A time of change is coming. You cannot allow Jews to steal your life’s work.”

I nodded. “I’ll see him after the presentation. Why not?”

Evading his amorous advances, I excused myself, saying I needed to rest. As I went upstairs to my guest suite, I heard Misia in my head:
“He is not someone you want to be associated with . . .”

I was relieved now that he had never proposed. Yet in my fervor to retain my grip on fame, I did not pause to mark the darkness about to envelop us.