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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
The story of Coco Chanel in her own words, as told by her to Paul MorandTold in her own words, Coco Chanel's memories offer a rare glimpse into the mind of one of the most influential women in fashion history.During a visit to St. Moritz at the end of World War II, Chanel shared intimate details of her life, loves and fashion philosophy with her life-long friend, Paul Morand. Only coming to light after Chanel's death, her intimate recollections reveal the secrets behind her success and the captivating charm that made her a true icon
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Seitenzahl: 211
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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PUSHKIN PRESS CLASSICS
THE ALLURE OF CHANEL
‘Morand was the all-round aesthete’
GUARDIAN
‘Morand was a citizen of the world, with a sharp eye and a neat turn of phrase’
THE TABLET
‘Paul Morand recaptures a WWII-era conversation between the author and fashion icon’
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
4
THE ALLURE OF CHANEL
PAUL MORAND
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY EUAN CAMERON
PUSHKIN PRESS CLASSICS
CONTENTS
THE ALLURE OF CHANEL
7 8
PREFACE
I arrived at rue Cambon for the first time. A New Year’s Eve party in 1921, I believe. “You’re all invited to Coco’s,” Misia had said to us; all, that is to say les Six, our group from Le Boeuf sur le Toit, the young people from Madame Alphonse Daudet’s salon, the regulars from the Jean Hugos’ studio at the Palais Royal, and those who attended our Saturday evening dinner parties at Darius Milhaud’s home. Chanel had not yet conquered Paris; the buffet had been laid out in the fitting rooms which had remained as they were in 1914, rather like a private clinic, in which Mme Langweil’s Coromandel screens had not yet unfurled their autumn leaves. Apart from her Deauville clients, or some polo players, friends of the Capel whom she had just lost, Chanel was very lonely, very shy, very closely watched; that evening Misia brought along people who would be Chanel’s life-long companions, the Philippe Berthelots, Satie, Lifar, Auric, Segonzac, Lipschitz, Braque, Luc-Albert Moreau, Radiguet, Sert, Elise Jouhandeau, Picasso, Cocteau, Cendrars (not Reverdy yet). Their presence alone marked the break with 1914, a past now dismissed, and a path that opened to the future, a future in which bankers would no longer be called Salomon, but Boy, or Lewis, where Satie would not write Espana, but Espagna, where perfumes would no longer be called Trèfle incarnate and Rêve d’automne, but would bear a reference number, as convicts do.
You wouldn’t have recognised Chanel’s genius; there was nothing yet to suggest her authority, her violent rages, her belligerence, nothing that revealed that character destined for greatness. Only Misia, with her commercial flair, had sensed that Chanel would rise to the top, 10had detected her serious side behind the frivolity, the precision of her mind and her talent, her uncompromising character. Behind an anxiety enlivened by so many guests, charming in her reticence, and of a shyness that was touching without one quite knowing why—perhaps because of her recent bereavement—Chanel appeared unsure of herself and as if she were questioning her life, no longer believing in happiness: we were bowled over. Did anyone suspect that we were dining, that evening, at the home of the exterminating angel of nineteenth-century style?
“Do you know what ‘faner’ means?” wrote Mme de Sévigné; ‘faner’ is to make hay; but it also means to make things wither or lose their freshness; merely by making an appearance, Chanel made the pre-war years wither, she caused Worth or Paquin to wilt. Chanel was a shepherdess; the training track, haymaking, manure, boot leather, saddle soap and the undergrowth smelt good to her. “Our century will have witnessed the revenge of the shepherdesses,” says Le Paysan parvenu. In Chanel’s case, it’s this ratio of “girls in petticoats and flat shoes” that Marivaux talks about, who are off to brave “the dangers of the city”, and prevail over them, with this sturdy appetite for vengeance that unleashes revolutions; Joan of Arc, too, was the revolt of the shepherdess; to quote Marivaux again: “Our century is ushering in the revenge of the shepherds; the peasant is dangerous, I warn you.” Chanel is of that breed. She said: “I have given women’s bodies back their freedom; that body perspired in formal clothing, beneath the lacework, the corsets, the underwear, the padding”; with Chanel the green countryside regained the upper hand, just as in literature, twenty years earlier, with Colette arriving in Paris in the same ‘schoolgirl’ smock, wearing the same large-bowed neck-tie, the same orphanage slippers. This spirit of revenge would never desert Chanel; it made her cut her beautiful, long hair that got caught in the laces of her corset; it wiped out an entire dream of a lost paradise, which was imaginary 11in any case, since she had initially loathed and fled from the fabulous childhood that so marked her.
The mystery of complexities! That’s where the dark side of Chanel lies, her suffering, her taste for causing harm, her need to castigate, her pride, her strict exactitude, her sarcasm, her destructive anger, the rigidity of a character that blows hot and cold, her abusive, destructive spirit; this belle dame sans merci would devise poverty for billionaires (all the while dining off gold plates), extravagantly expensive simplicity, seeking out what did not attract attention: the brass on yachts, naval blue and white, the waxed cloth from the hats of Nelson’s sailors, the black and white timber frames of the houses in Chester, the slate-grey shade of her lavender fields at Roquebrune, the picnics on the Brenta, those supper parties at La Pausa, without servants, at which one served oneself from plate warmers lined up on the game table. Never was snobbery better directed against oneself.
The brusqueness of Chanel’s character, the precision of her gestures or her phrases, the succinctness of her aphorisms dropped from a heart of flint and delivered in a torrent from the mouth of one of the Eumenides, her way of giving and taking back, of making gifts as if they were insults (“I am sending you these six statues of Venetian Negros,” she would ring up and say, “I can’t bear them any longer”), everything about her could be traced back to the depths of her frustrated childhood “among peasants who wanted their children to be taller than they themselves” (Bernard Palissy).
In 1900 one did not receive one’s ‘suppliers’, be they Monsieur Doucet or Madame Lanvin; from 1925 onwards, Chanel was not only received, but she made her hosts feel humble, she paid the hotel bills of grand-dukes, and she transformed their Highnesses into chambermaids; this vengeance extended to objects too, as she poured scorn on the sable concealed in a waterproof lining, cropped hairstyles ruthlessly, supplanted silks with the neutrality of jerseys, and replaced bright colours with 12faded parachutists’ uniforms. Might her refusal to marry the Duke of Westminster have been an unexpected way of blotting out Trafalgar and Waterloo? Her hot-tempered pauperism even took pleasure in cheapening precious gems, turning them into common stones; it allowed her to lend her sapphire necklaces to poor girls for a ball (whom she later accused of having stolen them).
Occasionally her nostrils, which were enlarged by a permanent anger, stopped quivering, and it was then that she revealed a certain weariness, and her heart unburdened the secret of a taciturn disposition; but that lasted only a moment, she could not cope without you; the following day, she couldn’t stand you any longer. Chanel was Nemesis.
That voice that gushed forth from her mouth like lava, those words that crackled like dried vines, her rejoinders, simultaneously crisp and snappy, a tone that grew more and more peremptory as age took its toll, a tone that was increasingly dismissive, increasingly contradictory, laying irrevocable blame, I heard them all, over entire evenings, in the St Moritz hotel where I met her in the winter of 1946, unemployed and with nothing to do for the first time in her life, and champing at the bit. She had gone into voluntary exile in the Engadine, unsure whether to return to rue Cambon, and waiting to become wealthy again. She felt both trapped by the past and gripped by time regained, a Guermantes of couture, a Verdurin of an age that was suddenly foreign to her, the De Gaulle years, and black bile flowed from eyes that still sparkled, beneath arched eyebrows increasingly accentuated by eyeliner, like sculpted basalt; Chanel, the volcano from the Auvergne which Paris was mistaken in believing was extinct.
On returning to my bedroom, I scribbled down a few notes from these St Moritz conversations and then thought no more about them; apart from the unforgettable picture of Misia, they were lost to my memory. Moving house in Switzerland last August, I chanced to come across these yellowing pages of thirty years ago. In the meantime, 13following her death, some very comprehensive books about Chanel had been published, a brilliant novel, as well as the sensitive memoir of a late friendship.
I enjoyed rereading my volatile pages, written on headed notepaper from the Badrutt’s Palace, then I felt like sharing my nostalgia with Pierre Berès; he pleaded with me to have them typed out; a slippery slope … Nothing was written by me; it was all by a ghost, but a ghost who, from beyond the grave, kept up a frantic gallop, her normal pace. Allure, in every sense of the word:1 the physical and mental rhythms, like the three speeds of a horse that riders refer to; and also, as in hunting, the pace of a stag, to indicate its trail, its course among the leafy boughs and the broken branches; Chanel passed this way, Chanel was there; thirty years is a great forest.
P M [1976]
14
1 In French the word ‘allure’, as well as having the sense that it has in English of attraction, charm and enticement, also denotes pace and speed of movement. [Tr]
ALONE
It is not within view of my native Puy-de-Dôme that I am speaking to you, this evening, it’s in St Moritz, overlooking the Bernina Pass; it’s not in our gloomy house where, one day, a proud and inscrutable little girl was taken in, without affection or warmth, that I begin telling you the story of my past life; it’s in a brightly lit hotel, where the rich take their pleasure and their laborious rest. But for me, in the Switzerland of today just as in the Auvergne of yesteryear, I have only ever found loneliness.
At the age of six, I am already alone. My mother has just died. My father deposits me, like a millstone, at the house of my aunts, and leaves immediately for an America from which he will never return. An orphan … ever since then, this word has always paralysed me with fear; even now I cannot go past a girls’ boarding school and hear people saying “they are orphans”, without tears coming to my eyes. Half-a-century has passed, but in the midst of the luxury and happiness enjoyed by the last happy people in a miserable world, I am alone, still alone.
More alone than ever.
These initial remarks are preceded by the word “Alone”; I would not write “Alone …”, I would not follow it with an ellipsis, as if to tint my isolation with a note of melancholy 16that is not in my nature; nor with an exclamation mark: “Alone!”, which would have had the pointless effect of appearing to challenge the world. I merely observe that I have grown up, lived, and am growing old alone.
It is loneliness that has forged my character, which is bad-tempered, and bronzed my soul, which is proud, and my body, which is sturdy.
My life is the story—and often the tragedy—of the solitary woman, her woes, her importance, the unequal and fascinating battle she has waged with herself, with men, and with the attractions, the weaknesses and the dangers that spring up everywhere.
Today, alone in the sunshine and snow … I shall continue, without husband, without children, without grandchildren, without all those delightful illusions, without all those delusions that make us believe that the world is inhabited by our other selves, to work and live ‘alone’.
LITTLE COCO
Every child has a special place, where he or she likes to hide, play and dream. Mine was an Auvergne cemetery. I knew no one there, not even the dead; I didn’t grieve for anyone; no visitor ever came there. It was a little, old country cemetery, with neglected graves and overgrown grass. I was the queen of this secret garden. I loved its subterranean dwellers. “The dead are not dead as long as we think of them,” I would tell myself. I became very fond of two unnamed tombs; these slabs of granite and basalt were my playroom, my boudoir, my den. I brought flowers there; on the humped mounds I devised hearts with cornflowers, stained-glass windows with poppies, citations with daisies. In between two mushroom-picking expeditions, I would bring my rag dolls on a visit, the ones I preferred to all the others because I had made them myself. I confided my joys and sorrows to my silent companions without disturbing their final rest.
I wanted to be sure that I was loved, but I lived with people who showed no pity. I like talking to myself and I don’t listen to what I’m told: this is probably due to the fact that the first people to whom I opened my heart were the dead.
There we are arriving at my aunts’ house, my father and I, at dusk. We are in deep mourning. My mother has just died. My two sisters have been sent to a convent. I, being 18the most sensible one, am entrusted to these aunts who are distant relations, my mother’s first cousins. When we get there, we are greeted half-heartedly; they cut the wick of the lamp to see my face more clearly. My aunts have had supper; we haven’t; they are surprised that people who have been travelling all day should not have eaten. This disturbs their routine and their household management, but eventually they overcome their harsh, provincial austerity and say reluctantly: “We shall cook you two boiled eggs.” Little Coco can sense their reluctance and is offended; she is dying of hunger, but at the sight of the eggs she shakes her head, she refuses them, she declines, she states in a loud voice that she does not like eggs, she loathes them; in actual fact, she loves them, but after this first meeting, on this dismal night, she needs to say no to something, to say no passionately to everything she is presented with, to the aunts, to everything around her, to the new life. During the ten years that she will spend in the Mont-Dore, little Coco will dig herself ever more deeply into her first lie, her stubborn refusal, until at last the undisputed legend—the first legend, which will be followed by so many more!—is given credence: “little Coco doesn’t like eggs”. Henceforth, whenever I am about to consume a fine mouthful of flambéed omelette, hoping that this myth concerning me will be forgotten, I shall hear my aunts’ caustic voices saying to me: “you know very well they are made of eggs”. Thus does the myth kill the hero.
I say no to everything, because of a fierce—too fierce—love of life, because of a need to be loved, because everything about my aunts irritates and upsets me. Horrible aunts! Adorable aunts! They belonged to that peasant bourgeoisie 19that never sets foot in town, or in their village, unless driven there by bad weather, for the winter, but which never loses touch with the earth that feeds them. Horrible aunts for whom love is a luxury and childhood a sin. Adorable aunts whose chimney place overflows with salted and smoked meats, dressers with salted butter or jams, cupboards with fine Issoire linen sheets, which our Auvergne hawkers sell all over the world. There is so much linen-ware in their house that they need only send it to the laundry twice a year. I know that people from the Auvergne are not supposed to be very clean, but compared to our well-worn bundles nowadays, it was a great deal of linen. Our servants wear pleated head-dresses, because from the age of fifteen they have cut off and sold their hair; it’s a custom that dates back to the Gauls; Roman women were already wearing our hair. I am sent to school and to catechism classes. I don’t learn a thing there. My knowledge would never have anything to do with what the teachers taught me; the God I believe in would not be the god of the priests. My aunt makes me recite my lesson; since she has forgotten her catechism, she looks in my book for her questions; I answer perfectly, and all the better because I have discovered another catechism in the attic and have torn out the pages one by one, and so can hide the passages I am being questioned about in the palm of my hand.
The attic … what resources there are in this attic! It’s my library. I read everything. I find the fictional material there upon which my inner life will feed. We never bought books at home; we cut out the serial from the newspaper and we sewed together those long sheets of yellow paper. That’s 20what little Coco lapped up in secret, in the so-called attic. I copied down whole passages from novels I had read, which I would slip into my homework: “Where on earth did you get hold of all that?” the teacher asked me. Those novels taught me about life; they nourished my sensibility and my pride. I have always been proud.
I hate to demean myself, to submit to anyone, to humiliate myself, not to speak plainly, to give in, not to have my own way. Now as then, pride is present in whatever I do, in my gestures, in the hardness of my voice, in my steely gaze, in my anxious and well-developed facial features, in my entire being. I am the only volcanic crater in the Auvergne that is not extinct.
My hair is still black, rather like a horse’s mane, my eyebrows are as black as our chimney sweep’s, my skin is dark like the lava from our mountains, and my character is as black as the core of a land that has never capitulated. I was a rebellious child, a rebellious lover, a rebellious fashion designer, a true Lucifer. My aunts were not wicked people, but I thought they were, which amounts to the same thing. The Mont-Dore was not really a terrible place, but it was for me, and it was what I endured at the time that has strengthened me; I owe my powerful build to my very tough upbringing. Yes, pride is the key to my bad temper, to my gypsy-like independence, to my antisocial nature; it is also the secret of my strength and my success; it’s the Ariadne’s thread that has always enabled me to find my way back.
For I sometimes lose myself. In the maze of my legendary fame, for example. Each of us has his or her legend, foolish 21and wonderful. Mine, to which Paris and the provinces, idiots and artists, poets and society people have contributed, is so varied, so complex, so straightforward and so complicated at the same time, that I lose myself within it. Not only does it disfigure me, but it reconstructs another aspect of me; when I want to recognise myself, all I have to do is think of that pride that is both my flaw and my virtue.
My legend is based upon two indestructible pillars: the first is that I have come up from goodness knows where; from the music hall, the opera or the brothel; I’m sorry, for that would have been more amusing; the second is that I am Queen Midas.
It was thought that I had a mind for business that I don’t have. I am not Madame Curie, but nor am I Madame Hanau. Business matters and balance sheets bore me to death. If I want to add up, I count on my fingers.
It irritates me when I hear people say that I’ve been lucky. No one has worked harder than me. Those who dream up legends are lazy folk; if they weren’t, they would go and investigate more deeply, instead of inventing things. The notion that anyone could construct what I have built up, without working, as if by magic, by rubbing Aladdin’s lamp and simply making a wish, is nothing but pure imagination. (Pure … or impure.) What I say here will not change anything, in any case: nothing.
The legend has a harder life than the subject; reality is sad, and that handsome parasite that is the imagination will always be preferred to it. May my legend gain ground, I wish it a long and happy life! And many are the times that 22I shall continue to meet people who will talk to me about “Mlle C whom they know very well”, without realising that it is her they are addressing.
“My earliest childhood”. Those words, which are usually linked together, make me shudder. No childhood was less gentle. All too soon, I realised that life was a serious matter. My mother, who was already very ill, would take us, my two sisters and me, to the home of an elderly uncle (I was five years old) who was known as the “uncle from Issoire”. We were shut away in a room covered in red wallpaper. To begin with, we were very well behaved; then we noticed that the red wallpaper was very damp and could be peeled off the wall, and we tore off a little strip to begin with; it was great fun. By pulling a little harder, a large section of wallpaper came away; it was extremely amusing; we climbed up on a chair; without any effort, all the paper came off … We piled up the chairs one on top of the other: the wall appeared with its pink plaster; how marvellous! We placed the stack of chairs on a table and managed to strip away the paper as far as the ceiling: the pleasure was sublime! At last, my mother came in; she stood stock still, contemplating the disaster. She didn’t say a word to us; in the depths of her despair all she did was weep silently; no reprimand could have had such an effect on me; I ran away, howling with sorrow: we never saw the uncle from Issoire again.
Yes, life was a solemn affair, since it caused mothers to cry. On another occasion, my sisters and I were put to bed in a room, not normally occupied, in which bunches of grapes were hanging on a string from the ceiling. The grapes, in 23their paper bags, would keep in this way throughout the winter: I took a pillow, threw it in the air, and knocked down one bunch; another followed; then another; the grapes lay scattered on the ground; I hit them with the bolster, this way and that; soon the entire harvest was strewn over the wooden floor. For the first time in my life, I was whipped. The humiliation was something I would never forget.
“These people live like travelling circus folk,” an aunt remarked.
“Coco will turn out badly,” another replied.
“We’ll have to sell her to the gypsies …”
“Stinging nettles …” (domestic chastisements only made me more uncivilised, more fractious).
When I observe how early happiness handicaps people, I do not regret having been deeply unhappy to begin with. You have to be a truly decent person to put up with a good education. I would not have had a different destiny to mine for anything in the world.
I was naughty, bad-tempered, thieving, hypocritical and eavesdropping. I only liked to eat what I had stolen. Unbeknown to my aunts, I would hide away and cut myself huge slices of bread; the cook used to say to me: “You’ll cut yourself in half”; in order to be free, I took my bread to the lavatory. The proud know only one supreme good: freedom!
But to be free, one needs money. I thought of nothing but the money that opens the prison gate. The catalogues I read gave me wild dreams of spending. I imagined myself wearing a white woollen dress; I wanted a bedroom painted 24in white gloss, with white curtains. What a contrast this white made with the dark house in which my aunts confined me. Shortly before he left for America, my father brought me a first communion dress, in white chiffon, with a crown of roses. So as to punish me for being proud, my aunts said to me: “You’re not going to wear your crown of roses, you’ll wear a hat.” What agony it was, on top of so many other things, such as the shame of having to confess to the priest that I had stolen two cherries! To be deprived of the crown! For me, the eldest, not to be able to wear it!
I threw my arms around my father’s neck. “Take me away from here!” “Now, now, my dear Coco, everything will be all right, I’ll be back, I’ll take you with me, we’ll have a home again …” Those were his last words. He didn’t come back. I never lived under my father’s roof again. He occasionally wrote and told me to trust him and said that his business was doing well. And then that was all: we never heard another word from him.
