He went still. “Ah. I believe I know what this is about.”
“I’m sure you do.” I moved to the bedside table. “Where are my cigarettes? Oh, no. I must have left them up on deck.” As I started to move past him, he said, “You know it cannot be helped,” and I halted. Much as I wanted to resist, it all came flooding back like the recollection of some terrible illness: the memory of Boy, telling me it was expected of him.
“Not helped?” Incredulity sharpened my voice. “Did I miss something in the news item about her holding a pistol to your head?”
“Coco.” He sighed, rummaging in his pockets to draw out his cigarette case. I snatched it from him. “Did you honestly think we were going to . . . ?” The note of mournful regret in his unfinished question went through me, as keen as a scalpel. He lowered his eyes. “If I ever gave you cause for it, I must apologize. You are the most engaging woman I have ever known. I would not wish to cause you any pain. Yet surely you realize how impossible it is. We are from different worlds. You would not be happy in mine, and I . . . well, I do not understand yours.”
“Of course.” I managed to extricate a cigarette from his case, even smile as I bent to his proffered lighter. “I’m fully aware of how incompatible we are.” I smiled, though it felt like a rictus on my face. “I still would have liked to be told in person.”
“I haven’t told you because nothing has been decided yet.”
“But it might.” I blew out smoke, thinking his lady with three names probably didn’t smoke, or at least not as much as I did. It made me want to laugh aloud at the absurdity of it, my own foolishness, blown back in my face. How could I have imagined he would find me worthy of the title of duchess? What was worse, how could I have imagined I desired it?
His next words, however, cut to the quick. “Not might. It must. I must marry again and have a son. You always knew that. If I do not, my entire estate will pass to a cousin I’ve scarcely met. I can make provisions for my daughters, but only a son can protect my fortune, my name. It is my duty; it must come before my happiness. You do not understand,” he added, gazing at me with pitiful sorrow, “because you do not have this burden to carry. You have only your shops. You are free.”
I could not believe it. I could not fathom how I had let this happen, how I had willingly set myself up for this devastation. Despite the constant assertions that I was free to do as I pleased, everyone seemed to forget that my heart was not made of stone. I was not as resilient as they believed. Though I did not love Bendor as I had Boy, I feared the impact would prove harder to bear this time because I was not young anymore. It was not only infuriating but also deeply humiliating.
“I do . . . love you,” he went on, tripping over his tongue. “But even if it were possible, we have not—you cannot . . .”
I went to him swiftly, rising on my toes to kiss his mouth and silence him. He looked like a miserable child, forlorn because he must relinquish his toys. It will not last, I wanted to whisper; unlike Boy, your love will pass. It was always transient. Only I had tried to make it permanent, laboring under the delusion that it was something we both wanted.
Instead, all I said was, “Once it is settled, you will let me know?”
He nodded. “I would want you to meet her.”
I forced myself to shrug. “Naturally, darling. I’ll have to approve her wardrobe,” and I left the stateroom to clamber up the steps to the deck, fighting back a horrifying surge of despair as I pretended to search for my missing cigarette case.
It was in my pocket. It had been there the entire time.
But I would have flung myself overboard before I let him see me cry.
THREE DAYS LATER, an urgent telegram arrived from Venice.
Diaghilev was dying.
WE WENT IN HASTE to the Hotel Des Bains, on the Lido; as we took the staircase to Diaghilev’s suite, I seized Misia’s arm. “No histrionics,” I whispered. “The last thing he needs is to see you falling apart at his bedside.”
The room was in chaos, room service trays scattered on the floor along with suitcases bursting with unpacked clothes. Serge Lifar, Diaghilev’s lithe dark-haired Ukrainian lover, came to me.
“Coco,” he murmured, his deep brown eyes circled by shadows, “I fear it is very serious. His rheumatism . . . he refused to take his medicines. He collapsed, and . . .” Serge choked back a sudden sob. “Oh, dear God, what will we do without him?”
I took his hand, holding it tight. “No tears, yes? He must see us happy. A lift to his spirit can do wonders for his constitution.”
But as Lifar led me to the bed where Misia already sat, crumpled like sodden tissue, one look at Diaghilev’s wasted frame told me it was too late. I’d not witnessed the death of anyone I had loved since my mother. I could now be grateful I’d been spared the sight as Diaghilev struggled to open his eyes, his gaze wavering, already poised on a distant threshold until he recognized us and murmured, “Coco. Misia. How charming of you to join us.”
I heard faint humor in his remark, which caused Misia to clutch her hand to her mouth. Grief—a bane she’d always evaded—engulfed her. I could feel her every loss rack her as I stood with my hands on her shoulders, her abandonment by her parents, her divorces, the realization that she was about to lose this man whom she had championed and savaged on a whim. Turning to press her face into my skirt, she wept with heart-wrenching abandon.
“Surely it’s not as terrible as all that,” Diag said weakly, but as his gaze met mine, I saw that he knew it was, and he acknowledged my awareness without a word.
“We’ll stay with you,” I told him, and he smiled, closing his eyes again.
“Yes,” he sighed. “I would like that.”
HE DIED TWO DAYS LATER, slipping away in the early morning hours as the turquoise sea lapped the floating city, and Lifar, his last love, held his hand. There was, as usual, not enough in the Ballets Russes’ coffers to cover the expense. I took charge. His body was in such a terrible state from his neglected disease that we could not transport him back to Paris. He must be interred on the island of San Michele, Venice’s sole cemetery, and I ensured it would be done in style, with a white gondola bearing his coffin and us sailing behind in a flotilla of black ones.
I sent word to Bendor, who had moored his yacht outside Venice, but he did not appear at the appointed hour. The hotel’s manager had expressed concern; Diag’s demise had left him with an outstanding bill and worries that a death on the premises would affect business adversely. I paid the bill and arranged for the removal of the corpse at dawn, before the hotel guests woke.
Misia resembled a specter as we watched the coffin lowered into its grave. “He’ll be so alone here,” she moaned. “So far from Paris, from everything and everyone he loved.”
“He loved Venice, too,” I said. “Besides, he’s not here anymore.”
We had an unexpected moment of drama when Lifar, overcome by the enormity of his loss, gave a howl and made as if to throw himself upon the coffin. We held him back as he cried and cast despairing looks about him, as though he couldn’t believe it was not some horrible joke and Diaghilev would come strolling out from behind the tombstones at any moment. I almost expected it myself. As we ferried back to the city, I kept looking over my shoulder for a glimpse of his portly figure in his astrakhan and pearled cravat, waving good-bye.
“Someone has to send word to Igor,” I said, and Misia blew into her handkerchief. “He’ll be devastated. He loved Diag like a brother.”
Stravinsky would indeed be that, I thought, as would Cocteau, Picasso, his dancers, and everyone else who had the great fortune to participate in his whimsical, extravagant, tradition-shattering sensations. None of us would ever see the likes of him again.
In this life, there could be only one Sergei Diaghilev.
His death affected me more than I realized, but I had to bury my own sorrow to care for Misia, who indeed appeared to fall apart at the seams, bereft in a world without her Jojo or beloved Diag, wit
hout a place where she reigned supreme as a muse.
Cutting short the trip with Bendor, in late August I returned with Misia to my home on Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. I installed her in one of the guest suites so she and Cocteau, also residing in my house, could commiserate. They no doubt shared their opiates, too, but I gave them leeway under the circumstances, returning to my atelier and never-ending work.
Vera Bate, recently engaged to the Italian officer and champion equestrian Alberto Lombardi, came to visit. I had put her in charge of overseeing the upcoming opening of my London boutique; she told me that once she did, she would see to her replacement, as Lombardi wished to return to Italy upon their marriage. In turn, I shared news of Dmitri, who had proposed to his American heiress, and of my aunt Adrienne. Her baron’s cantankerous father, who had most opposed her liaison with his son, was dying; upon his death, the family had finally granted Nexon permission to take Adrienne for his wife.
“So, we’re all settling down,” Vera said as we sat at my bar and my friends lolled on the sofas, drinking and talking. “Except you, Coco dearest. You seem determined to remain like the sphinx—enigmatic, gorgeous, and eternally by yourself.”
I smiled. “We need someone to pay for these parties. If I married and stopped working, what on earth would everyone do?”
“Ah,” she said, and I glanced at her, more piercingly than I should have, for she added, “I was wondering what happened with Bendor. I saw him in London; he was with Lord Sisonby’s daughter but he did not look happy. He asked me if you were coming to London for the boutique’s inauguration. I said I had no idea.” She paused. “I trust I did the right thing?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied, even as the glitter of my party faded around me. “My schedule is as insane as ever. In any event, Bendor and I are in perfect accord. There was never any question of marriage, if that is what you think. Men do not understand me. They say, ‘You needn’t worry anymore; you don’t have to do anything because I will take care of you.’ But what they really mean is, ‘You don’t have to do anything except be there for me.’ ” I forced out a brittle laugh, seeing her startled look. “It is not my plan. I never want to weigh more heavily on a man than a bird.”
Before she could respond, I went forth in my pearls and black crêpe de chine to swipe a champagne flute off the table before Cocteau, once again in the throes of opium, knocked it onto the carpet. I exchanged a few words with Picasso’s wife, Olga, who wore one of my latest beige jersey dresses and two-toned shoes, but seemed careworn from her roving painter’s infidelities.
On the stroke of two, I went upstairs. I never said good night these days; by now, everyone was accustomed to my departure. They would stay until they were either too drunk to leave and my butler Joseph escorted them to rooms prepared for them, or would drift off to one of the many late-night cabarets for more divertissements.
While I went to bed with my loyal dogs at my side, the weight of my solitude hung like an anchor upon me nevertheless.
ACT FIVE
NOT THE TIME FOR FASHION
1929–1945
“I AM NOT VAIN ENOUGH TO PRETEND TO KNOW TODAY WHAT TOMORROW IS GOING TO BE.”
I
On October 29, 1929, the American stock market crashed. The fallout was epic, demolishing entire fortunes in seconds, with reports of tycoons and their wives throwing themselves out of windows rather than face sudden destitution. Within the year, the ripples of America’s Depression reached us; I experienced an alarming reduction in orders from abroad as clients scurried for what would be a long hibernation from spending.
Bendor had warned me. We remained friends; he had proposed to Lady Ponsonby, and naturally, she accepted. In between the wedding plans, he brought his fiancée to Paris for tea with me (she was as pretty, bland, and blue blooded as I’d imagined) and told me that his battalion of fiscal analysts foresaw disaster overseas. I took initial precautions to safeguard my business, cutting back on new hires and paring back the number of dresses I presented. But nothing could prepare me for what ensued. The horn of plenty that had brought the Americans and the British in droves to my boutiques dried up. Even the much-vaunted opening of my store in London was subdued. Once again, I found myself adjusting to austerity.
Lavish beading and ornamentation were no longer appropriate (or cost effective) for such lean times. My little black dress alone had a resurgence—perhaps, I commented dryly, because it suited the new decade’s funereal tone. For my London debut, I designed cotton-blend ensembles at reduced prices, paring down my evening wear to a few selections in piqué, organdy, and lace, with flared hems and tailored silk-velvet jackets, while expanding my line of separates in printed fabric for women on a budget. I also introduced supple suits in an exclusive new silk-and-wool shantung cloth woven for me, and shoulder-strap handbags in quilted leather.
Despite the agonized end of les années folles, I welcomed this enforced return to simplicity. I had always adhered to the adage that less is more, and never wavered before a challenge. Moreover, unlike other designers who saw their customer base shrivel in the wake of the crash, I still had my talisman, my parfum No. 5, which remained astonishingly popular, as women everywhere forwent other indulgences for the comforting allure of my scent.
Nevertheless, the steady decline in my business began to trouble me. My boutiques in Deauville, Cannes, and Biarritz suffered as the gush of rich vacationers slowed to a trickle. Moreover, after years of unrivaled supremacy, new designers were appearing on the scene, including the Italian Elsa Schiaparelli, whose bathing suits and skiwear earned her acclaim. I found her style derivative, even as her prominence alarmed me. I knew I required a new venture to bolster my success. During a summer reprieve at La Pausa, Dmitri arrived with an offer that seemed the perfect opportunity.
His American heiress had survived the crisis that decimated so many of her privileged friends. Her family had invested in the motion picture industry, Dmitri explained, and now one of the lions of that business, Samuel Goldwyn, was making another play for my magic touch.
“He’s eager to bring you to Los Angeles. He’s willing to offer you carte blanche and a considerable salary to dress his most bankable stars,” said Dmitri as we lounged by the pool, Misia nearby in her straw hat and enormous sunglasses, nursing a martini. “He’ll be here in the Côte d’Azur next week on vacation. Why don’t you let me introduce you?”
At any other time, I would have declined. I had no interest in traveling to that brash nation where so many were suffering, nor, in truth, had I ever. Unlike most of my friends, including Misia, the faux glamour of Hollywood held no appeal for me. Still, I wondered at my hesitation. My clothing had always sold extremely well in the United States, as had my perfume. I might never have visited, but my name must be legendary if one of the richest moguls there was so determined to hire me. Even as I began to frown, thinking it really was not the time, Misia bleated, “Coco, what could be the harm? He is obviously very interested. It’s the second time he has asked.”
Dmitri gave me a laconic smile. He was looking as polished as only a Romanov with a secure bank account and a rich wife could, so much so that I contemplated enticing him to my bed just to see if I still could.
“Second time?” he said. “So, Goldwyn has offered before?”
“Yes. He sent me an offer . . . oh, maybe two or three years ago. The salary was indeed considerable,” I added. “You might even say extraordinary.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well. Then you must accept his invitation.”
“Not accept.” I stood, stretching my arms over my head as I stepped past Dmitri with deliberate seductiveness. “But I will see him,” I said before I plunged into my pool.
GOLDWYN WAS SHORT, sweaty, and stank of cigar. I arranged a luncheon at La Pausa, nothing too elaborate, easy fare with good wine and my friends. For some inexplicable reason, I felt as though I needed their protection. That feeling only increased as the mogul in his awful Hawaiian print shirt and shapeles
s slacks appraised my house as if he was tallying up its worth. Then he ordered the manicured blond wife at his side to the buffet and rattled on in staccato English that I barely understood, for while I spoke the language somewhat, I was hardly fluent.
“See here, Miss Chanel. What I propose is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you to dress my most lucrative stars: Swanson, Garbo, Colbert, Norma Talmadge, Ina Claire—they’ll wear only your clothes, made by you for their films and in their private lives, as well. You will make a fortune! No other designer has ever had such a chance. Every picture screen in the United States and abroad will be your—uh, what do you call it again?”
“Atelier,” I said, with a slight smile.
“Ate-what?”
“Salon, if you prefer. A glass of wine, Mr. Goldwyn?”
“No. Never touch the stuff. Gives me gas.” He guffawed; I winced, expecting the obligatory belch to follow. I recalled how Sert had refused to go to America because they only ate white bread. Apparently, they also rarely drank wine. Of course, Sert had reconsidered. Misia had told me, sniffling, that he’d finally accepted Rockefeller’s commission to paint a mural in one of his New York skyscrapers. There might not be much money these days, but evidently America still had plenty to squander, judging by Goldwyn’s enthusiastic harangue.
“So, what do you say? That Russian, Erté, came to Hollywood to design my sets and loved it. He took a contract for a year. I gave him a house. I can do the same for you.”
“I have a house,” I demurred. God save me, he reminded me of those hucksters from the marketplaces of my childhood, setting out soiled playing cards on upended crates to lure the gullible. “And I couldn’t possibly go for a year. My business is here.”
He peered at me, openmouthed.
“In France,” I explained, reaching for my cigarettes. “My atelier is in Paris. I couldn’t leave it for an entire year.”
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