“I will go and find you.”
I am on my own in Paris. Grand-Duke Dimitri, whom I had not seen since 1914, arrives in Paris at this moment. We dined together. I saw him the following day. In a very friendly way, I say to him:
“I have just bought a little blue Rolls, let’s go to Monte Carlo.”
“I have no money, all I’ve got is fifteen thousand francs …”
“I’ll put in the same amount,” I replied to the Grand-Duke. “With thirty thousand, we’ll have enough to enjoy ourselves for a week.”
We set off.
Misia was watching. She immediately sent a telegram to Stravinsky, in Spain: “Coco is a midinette who prefers grand-dukes to artists.”
Stravinsky almost exploded. Diaghilev sent me a telegram: “Don’t come, he wants to kill you.”
This affair, which I laugh about today, changed Igor’s life entirely. It transformed him. From being shy and self-effacing, it made him, contrary to what would normally have happened, into a hard man with a monocle; from a victim into a conqueror. Like many musicians, Igor has become an excellent businessman, he has a very precise awareness of his rights as an artist and can defend his interests very well.
I fell out with Misia for weeks, following this treacherous telegram. She swore to me that she had sent no such thing. Once again, I forgave her. In any case, Misia turned the wheel of fate, she also turned its page; she intervened, and from that day forth Stravinsky and I never saw each other again.
SOCIETY PEOPLE
HERE, I AM GOING TO VENT my anger against the age. Let those who are bored skip the pages. I know that I will sound like the Léon Bloy of couture, but too bad. I am, people frequently say, an anarchist.
I have employed society people, not to indulge my vanity, or to humiliate them (I would take other forms of revenge, supposing I were seeking them), but, as I have said, because they were useful to me and because they got around Paris, working on my behalf; as for me, I went to bed. Thanks to them, I was well-informed about everything, just as Marcel Proust, from the depths of his bed, knew what had been said at all the previous evenings’ dinner parties. I know what work is. I have never hired layabouts. Comte Etienne actually slaved away to such an extent that he secretly poached my buyers; he sent them off to his town house where he had set up a second workshop, while still retaining, what’s more, the one he had at my house. I dismissed him, for all who are paid deserve hardship. I don’t like dilettantes who take other people’s place, be it in literature or couture. It is immoral to play at earning one’s living.
On the subject of literature, an American newspaper asked me, some ten years ago, for a monthly column along the lines of: “What Mlle C thinks about …” I started writing a few articles; it soon bored me. So I suggested to the editor that he had these pieces done by Princesse Marthe … who writes so prettily that it is almost as if it were Anatole France, from beyond the grave, who was holding Mme Arman’s pen on this occasion. Naturally, in these impressions that I was meant to inspire without writing them, I needed to be there myself. From the first article by the Princess of fairy tales, the author had devoted half the column to praise of herself, another quarter to Paris, the City of Light which was intended to be her projector; the rest she used to expose me. “Paris was pink, the colour of pearl, the day was mild, my motorcar drew up in the rue Cambon and I set foot on the pavement: by chance my gaze fell on a pretty yellow sweater; I walked in, filled with wonder at this over-modest and inventive genius among the smaller couturiers who seems to be able to anticipate the wishes of us ladies …” etc. You see the kind of thing. The Princess did not receive her dollars; it was dishonest work.
I have mainly had foreigners work for me. The French have a great facility for asking favours for themselves, but don’t want to owe anything to anyone else. (I, on the other hand, like to ask on behalf of others.) When I dressed Parisian ladies without invoicing them, they criticised me, so as to show their independence. Eventually, I paid the bills directly. People said to me:
“Why give them all that money?”
I replied:
“So that they can speak ill of me.”
When I took smart friends on a trip, I always paid, because society people become amusing and delightful when they are certain they won’t have to pay for their pleasure. I purchased, in short, their good humour. They are irresistibly dishonest. In Berlin, the duchess (an Italian name here), who came with me, had a superb leather coat delivered to the hotel where we were staying, just as we were about to leave. I was in a bad mood, that morning.
“I refuse to pay for that,” I said.
“Oh! But there’s nothing to pay,” replied her boyfriend (for I had brought along the duchess’s boyfriend too, of course).
“Why is that?”
“We’ll leave without paying. Aurélia didn’t give her name …”
It was, after all, like putting something stolen on my account. I like Aurélia very much; she’s a great courtesan, four centuries behind her time.
Yes, society people amuse me more than the others. They make me laugh. They have wit, tact, a charmingly disloyalty, a well-bred nonchalance, and an arrogance that is very specific, very caustic, always on the alert; they know how to arrive at the right time, and to leave when necessary.
Having said this, I think it appalling that the wealthy Baronne de R or the very elegant Mrs B should have slept with my colleague P (may God help him!) to procure dresses that they could very well afford; this with the full knowledge of their husbands and lovers, naturally. As far as that goes, I’m an anarchist. If it should continue, and get worse, I’d prefer the Bolsheviks. What’s more, a society does not vanish for any mysterious reasons: it crumbles because of little things like that.
Society people have inherited from their forebears a complete ignorance of the most elementary commercial probity; every day is Sunday for them, and everyone is Mr Sunday. As long as they were not involved in business matters, this remained confined to social circles, but nowadays, alas, they are. In the world of couture, I’ve hardly ever noticed them behaving gallantly any more.
My friend, Madame de V, gave a dinner party for our top couturiers at her pretty Paris home, at which we were all to be seated at small tables. It was, in actual fact, this same P who was to be the guest of honour. The dinner was preceded by a cocktail party in the garden. The hostess was insistent, pressing everyone to stay. I went to her table; I could not find my place, even though I was told I was expected. While I was searching, the other tables, at which my colleagues were presiding, had been filled. I then noticed a little side-table, next to a partition, and I sat down on my own. The maître d’hôtel, who was helping out and who often worked for me, was the first to be aware of my isolation.
“Mademoiselle can’t stay there, all alone.”
“I’m fine. Bring me some cold chicken.”
“Here’s some champagne, the real thing, not sparkling wine. For there are two kinds, according to the tables.”
I put on my large spectacles and, with great amusement, I looked about me. Surrounding my colleagues, were those glamorous members of Parisian society whom they had dressed. The party was delightful, but I was only too well aware that terror reigned. My women friends would very much have liked to come to my table, out of courtesy, but they didn’t dare, for fear of being deprived of their next evening dress.
In short, I was deprived of dessert. The following morning, naturally, my hostess of the previous evening telephoned me to say that she had learnt too late about my punishment, that she was my best friend and that I was head and shoulders above everyone else, and a thousand other exquisitely perfidious pleasantries. All this could only be explained by a need to exaggerate, for, unlike the others, not having anything else to refuse P, this former buyer, she had wanted to do even better, so as to please him.