Loving Garbo

The group set off on a small yacht trip. Later Garbo joined Schlee at Cap d’Ail. They left for Paris at the beginning of October, planning to fly to New York on Sunday the 4th. The following summer Cecile de Rothschild, no fan of Georges Schlee, gave Cecil her version of what occurred:

She told me of how Fate had ordained that she should come to Paris on a certain day earlier than she intended – to find Greta & Schlee at the Crillon before leaving the next day for New York. They dined together. Greta left with her companion at 11.30^fn1 – she to bed – he to walk a little – whereupon he had a heart attack – went to a Bistro – asked the proprietor to telephone Greta – became worse & on the way to the hospital died. Greta meanwhile receives a call from an unknown man who she cannot understand because he speaks French. She tells him to call Cecile – who is given the news . . .²

The stringers for Time were hard at work and produced a contradictory version, which their editors, however, did not use:

Officials at the Crillon Hotel vehemently deny that Schlee died there and claim that he passed away quietly in a right bank Boîte de Nuit. But this song and dance is only to protect that noble name of the Place de la Concorde establishment. We called the American Embassy posing as a distant member of the family and they confirmed that he did, in fact, die at The Crillon. Cause of death: a heart attack.

Valentina arrived in Paris Monday and left for Los Angeles with the body on Tuesday. We were unable to learn whether Garbo left too or is still in town.3

The New York Times reported that Schlee died in a Paris hospital, but there were the inevitable rumours that he had died in a brothel, enjoying the favours of a young lady, or even, it was said, of a young man. The version most likely to be correct is that of Cecile de Rothschild as relayed to Cecil.^fn2

Valentina flew into Paris on Monday 5 October to collect Schlee’s body, and Garbo disappeared. She was around the corner, at Cecile de Rothschild’s apartment in the rue Faubourg St Honoré.

Schlee’s funeral took place in New York, at the Universal Funeral Chapel on 52nd Street and Lexington Avenue, with Valentina heading 85 mourners. Pushkin’s three-line poem, ‘Exegi Monumentum’,^fn3 was read in Russian and then in English. The Russian orthodox service was conducted by two priests who chanted prayers and lit candles.

Though Garbo was conspicuously absent from the funeral service, she continued to live at 450 East 52nd Street. Valentina, who had tolerated the ménage with Schlee all these years, now declared that she never wished to set eyes on Garbo again. Her declared reason for this was Garbo’s desertion of her husband at the hour of his death, but it was the culmination of years of bitterness. More reports were sent by the stringers for Time, energetically consulting any source they could for a story which again remained unpublished:

One of our very reliable sources here (a close friend of Garbo) tells us that Valentina was far from frowning on the free living set up. ‘She was not only one of Garbo’s former girlfriends’ our source claims ‘but also has boyfriends in Venice for the summer’. Things couldn’t have worked out better than the pattern of the last 15 years: George and Greta on the Côte d’Azur, Valentina playing around with her Counts and Dukes in the upper lofts of the Royal Daniele Hotel. Was he more than a business partner and companion? Most definitely . . . he did just about everything for Garbo . . . devoted his life to keeping the embers of the living part of the myth alive. He was Mr. Garbo and relished the role. But everyone knew he couldn’t do everything for the woman he was protecting. Their relationship was strictly platonic.4

Now that Schlee was dead, Valentina gave vent to her rage. She summoned a priest to exorcise her apartment, to remove all traces of Garbo. The priest was bidden to pay particular attention to the refrigerator, where Garbo had occasionally reached in for a can of beer. Valentina seized the villa at Cap d’Ail, which, the following year, she loaned to Diana Vreeland. She told her: ‘I had it exorcised. There will be no sign of that woman!’ But as Mrs Vreeland commented: ‘It was so full of spooks you could hardly move.’⁵

Valentina remained on the 14th floor of her building, Garbo on the 5th. Their uneasy proximity was to last for the next quarter of a century.

Cecil and Garbo were not in touch at this time, though he sent her a message at Christmas. She cabled back her love and thanks.⁶

While Cecil was in the US working on the film of My Fair Lady, he had made friends with a young Californian teacher called Kin. The young man flew to London in June 1964 and stayed with Cecil for nearly a year. It was a strange period for both of them. In August 1965 Kin acknowledged that there was no future in the relationship and retreated to San Francisco.

On the very day of Kin’s departure, Cecil set off to Athens for a cruise on which Garbo was a passenger. Cecile de Rothschild was the host. She had taken Garbo to Sardinia for two weeks, and they picked Cecil up at Vougliameni, near Athens. With her now well tried ability to find someone to tend to her every need, Garbo had adopted Cecile as her ‘jagger’, to borrow Evelyn Waugh’s word for an obsequiously devoted friend. In Cecil’s words: ‘Cecile fills the role of Schlee in Greta’s life – Schlee & Mercedes combined, for I cannot think that Greta treated Schlee as badly as she does Cecile.’⁷ He left an account of the cruise in his diary:

. . . Cecile was serious – heavily Rothschildian & slightly preoccupied lest her guests – Frederick Ledebur fn4 & Princesse de Broglie^fn5 would not turn up. But they did – & soon we were settling down to our shipboard life . . .

Cecile . . . is a good humoured, kind woman who has not let her great wealth ruin her life. She does manage to do interesting unconventional things with it – & shows enthusiasm & imagination . . .

She is very happy to have Greta on board – for she is besotted. She snickers at everything Greta does – even if it is a slap directed against herself . . .

Cecile & Greta have recently been for 2 weeks in Sardinia where Greta slept well & behaved beautifully, even socialising with a great group of strangers – but the Sieta being a small boat echoes all the sounds of the night & Greta was unable to sleep in her cabin. Moreover she had a stomach upset & my entero-viaform came to her rescue only just in time – for if Greta had not recovered there was talk of Cecile having to take her home. Greta was terribly unkind to Cecile – I was shocked – & Greta at night came to her cabin door & said ‘I’ve got a temperature. Isn’t that frightening! You see I should never travel!’ . . .

Cecile brings the top of a garment to Greta’s cabin. ‘Here is the top of your bathing suit’. ‘I know it is, but how do I know now where I’ll find the other part?’

‘My shoes – they’re all feelthy. I wash ’em’.

C.: ‘Why not put them in fresh water?’

‘No. First in the veema (vim?) then in my cabina’.

C.: ‘But let me wash them. It amuses me to do it – but after lunch – because lunch is ready’.

‘Naaow!’

C.: ‘Lunch is ready’.

‘What, you mean lunch is ready now?’

C. (politely): ‘Well we said we’d have lunch at 1 or 1.15’.

‘Why don’t you give me a straight answer? What is the time now?’

‘One o’clock’.

‘Then I wash them now straight away’ . . .

By being so solitary all these years [Garbo] has never learnt to speak grammatical English. The result is that in her beautiful, touching voice she uses the idioms of the Hollywood electricians. Sometimes it is almost impossible to understand her, & since I am the only one on board to ‘kid’ her at all have asked ‘Would you please translate that last sentence into Swedish!’

Cecile, while we were anchoring in a marvellous green bay surrounded by forested hills, remarked how wonderful it was to be woken by the tinkle of sheep bells & the calls of the shepherd. Greta appeared. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Did you hear that bloody shepherd? Fancy being woken by a shepherd!’

In this cruel harsh sunlight on board one sees every crinkle & crevice in the most cruel way. I have hawklike watched her in all lights, without mascara even – this is a severe test & she does not like to be seen without this armour & only ever appears this naked if she is swimming early before the rest of us, or if she has gone to bed & returns to complain about the noise . . .

Yet at other times – & under stark conditions she can still be extraordinarily beautiful. The angle of nose jutting unhesitantly from the profile is unaltered. The nose is cut with a high deep bridge and the eyes are deeply set – so that there is always a cavernous shadow above the lid. With age the cheekbones have become more modulated & firm & the teeth though they have lost their dazzling whiteness (no doubt partly due to the non-stop smoking of cigarettes) are still big & bold & by slanting inwards complement the perkiness of the nose (& incidentally used to catch in a wonderful way the reflection of the studio lights).

In the apricot coloured light of evening she still looks absolutely marvellous & she could be cleverly photographed to appear as beautiful as ever in films. But it is not just her beauty that is dazzling, it is the air of mysteriousness that makes her so appealing particularly when talking with sympathy & wonder to children or reacting herself to some situation with all the wonder and surprise of childhood itself.8

It is 8 in the morning – the others have gone on shore to buy honey cakes while the ship is refuelled. Greta put her head out of her cabin & said ‘Wait for me’ – so I suppose the others waited – for Cecile would never go without Greta. Stubbornly I have stayed putin my cabin to finish my volume of Proust & now I have left the yellowing trees in the Avenue des Acacias & taken up my pen to try & capture the atmosphere of this holiday trip. It is a changing & strange atmosphere – on the surface & because we all are civilised human beings the atmosphere is light & ‘sportive’ – emotions under control – but I find that I am not the only one to sense the vibrations of rancour, jealousy & criticism that exist beneath the surface.

Last night after our dinner in the Quai when the others had left our disappointing taverna for coffee in a cafe, Jeanne Marie de Broglie & myself sat eating baklava at a cake shop & we for the first time discussed our fellow travellers. No more unselfish sweet tempered person exists than Jeanne Marie. Looking like an Ingres model of 18 it is incredible to think that she is a mother of grown children with quite a career as an art dealer, so sweet & ‘open’ is she – that it is surprising to find that she does form her impressions – not always favourable – of those she loves.

Less in a spirit of complaint than of analysis she discussed our hostess – with whom she shares a cabin. Therefore there is no question of ever reading more than a page of a book without being interrupted – for Cecile’s restlessness has become so neurasthenic that she cannot be alone – for one moment – nor can she stick to any subject for long – except if the subject be Greta – by whom she is obsessed. With Greta she is a kid hypnotised by a snake. She is willing to become Greta’s slave – she only wishes to be badly treated by Greta – & she will snigger with glee. But it is not a good way for her to spend these years – now that she is feeling more than ever the lack of a man in her life . . .

Greta walks along the shore in a petulant mood. Cecile follows ten yards after her. Only when a pile of rocks brings her progress to a halt does Greta turn to welcome Cecile.

Jeanne Marie remarked that she had been fascinated to watch ‘the Queen’, that in a bathing cap she still looked beautiful with the well known line of nose & forehead & neck – that she could be extremely funny – & her clowning was wonderful. But she is always so critical: ‘Did you notice when Cecile asked if she wanted eggs & bacon, she said: you’re not to order them or they’ll get cold or I’ll have to come when I’m not ready. I’ll come when I’m ready & order them then & then they’ll be hot’. At dinner she remarks: ‘How beautiful this fruit looks. But it’s all rotten – not ripe – hard – uneatable’.

Even Frederick Ledebur, the great gentleman that he is – so wise and understanding and forgiving – has remarked upon Greta’s being so critical of everything. But no-one is as critical as I am. Not because I have any resentment or prejudice – but just because having loved her so much it is a nightmare for me to see what inevitable paths her negativeness & selfishness have brought her.

Yesterday was not Greta’s worst day. She felt quite well – but it was a pique day. While I wrote (my) diary next to her on deck she was restless & bored – When we bathed she rested on shore – when we were about to leave she bathed. At lunch she moved plates, fumbled with cigarette apparatus – always needing something – & remarked in childish or critical terms on the food: ‘Could I have a half lemon – I can’t get anything from these slices – this is goodie – shall I try some coffee?’ Otherwise she was out of the conversation & I was determined that the meal should not go by without any topics to be discussed & so worked hard in spite of interruptions from both Cecile & Greta. We talked of movies of today – Greta silent. She did not even know that Jeanne Moreau had made a film of Mata Hari. She had never heard of Antonioni Fellini, Richardson,fn6 or the like.

She remained stubbornly silent while the pros & cons of Dietrich were discussed. She took no part in an explanation of expressionist painting. When Jeanne Marie asked the date of Augustus, Greta said: ‘I know “nuttin”.’ One sees that those endless days & evenings doing nothing have resulted in negation. She has never let any new impression or influence come into hand for more than a moment in the last 20 years. The funny stories of Chaplin she tells me are those she told me when I first met her. She bothers not to learn the names of even the people she has perforce got to see. I doubt very much if she has even learnt Jeanne Marie’s name & refers to her as ‘this lady’ . . .

The evening sunlight fading to make the colours burn more & more melodiously was a pleasure to us all. Greta did not seem to notice the magical effects – of which she in pink with pink and white striped trousers became a part & in this light she became as beautiful as her legend. But it is a legend that does no longer exist in reality. If she had been a real character she would have left the legend, developed a new life – new interests & knowledge. As it is after 30 years she has not changed except outwardly – & even the manner & personality has dated. Poor old Marlene Dietrich, with her dye & face lift & new career as singer – with all her nonsense – is a live & vital person – cooking for her grandchildren & being on the go fn7 – That is much preferable to this other non giving, non living phantom of the past.⁹

A further incident occurred on this cruise when Cecil, Garbo and Friedrich Ledebur discovered a deserted cove in which to swim:

No sooner had we arrived, stripped naked and stepped into the sun than a distant boat roared towards us. It was a funny scene, Greta trying to get to shore in time on her behind, I, bare assed, walked out. Friedrich was marooned with his white patch of skin and huge hanging balls an embarrassment to him and all who would study the unusual sight.^fn8 ¹⁰

Garbo toyed with the idea of going to London with Cecil after the cruise, but finally opted for returning to New York.

On the actual day of her 60th birthday, Garbo was not to be found in any of her regular New York haunts. Allan Eisner, the proprietor of the Swedish Book Nook on 81st Street, was asked for news of her. He said he had not seen her in months, adding: ‘But the last time I saw her she looked fine.’ ‘Does she seem happy?’ – ‘As happy as ever.’ – ‘Is she lonely?’ – ‘I don’t know.’¹³ There were no parties, but the Swedish Consul General sent her flowers. On such unenlightening snippets were the American public fed.

Cecil returned to England in order to try and paint more seriously. In December he received a typed letter from Garbo, saying she was back in Manhattan, apologising for not having come to England, wishing him a happy Christmas, and saying she would write again.¹⁴

^fn1The distance between Cecile de Rothschild’s apartment and the side door of the Crillon was minimal.

^fn2The Gronowicz book, Garbo: Her Story (Simon & Schuster, 1990) gave yet another contradictory version of the death, which further serves to discredit its overall veracity.

^fn3‘I have erected a monument to myself, not built by hands. The track to it shall not be overgrown. It has raised its indomitable head higher than Alexander’s column.’

^fn4Count Friedrich Ledebur (1900–1987), wild giant of an Austrian aristocrat, whose varied career included being a bit part actor in various Hollywood films. He was the bemedalled Admiral in Fellini’s Ginger and Fred in the 1980s. A keen horseman, his legs were so long that when he rode they all but touched the ground. He married the poet Iris Tree, and later Countess Alice Hoyos.

^fn5Princesse Jeanne-Marie de Broglie, for many years Director of Christie’s in Paris.

^fn7Dietrich became an international singer, making her singing début at the Sahara in Las Vegas in 1953. The next year she took London by storm, and thereafter she toured the world, invariably accompanied by Burt Bacharach. She made theme tunes out of ‘Falling in Love Again’ and ‘Where Have all the Flowers Gone?’

Dietrich was difficult, but she was professional. She refused to do ‘one night stands’ as the lighting was too costly. She insisted on ‘pink lights for sweet songs, red for sad songs’. When she arrived at one hotel in America in 1974, the public relations officer warned the staff that the message was: ‘Miss Dietrich gets whatever she wants.’ This meant everything from Dom Perignon by the case, six bottles of Heineken beer, sardine and onion sandwiches on rye, white and yellow flowers in her room, and a full length mirror, down to a wheelchair to take her to the edge of the stage and the same officer each night to push it.

Dietrich went on performing until she fell off the stage in Sydney, Australia in 1975 and broke her thigh. In the 1980s she became a recluse in Paris, declaring: ‘What remains is solitude.’ She died there on 6 May 1992, aged 90.

^fn8Friedrich Ledebur had endured several adventures with Garbo and was no great admirer of her whims. She used to like to walk naked, but he had to walk in front and if a peasant approached, he warned her and she dressed. After two such incidents he got bored. The next creature he saw was a mule. He gave the same warning. She was furious, but he said: ‘Oh I thought perhaps you didn’t want a mule to see you.’

Another time he had accompanied Garbo, Salka Viertel and one other on a camel trip. Garbo refused to pay her share or to sign the photos their guides produced: ‘I’m invited. I don’t pay.’ Ledebur was furious: ‘You’re invited? By someone with a tenth of your money.’ He made it clear that if she didn’t do both things, she would be left in the desert. She did both. (Late Count Ledebur to author, 22 August 1982.)

^fn9Eustace Seligman, a partner of the law firm of Sullivan and Cromwell, described as ‘a social registerite known for his fondness for celebrities’. He was at Schlee’s funeral.