Read Online American Lady : The Life of Susan Mary Alsop (9781101601167) by Frances (INT) Caroline; Fitzgerald De Margerie - Free Book Online
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flattered her, treating her like a goddess, although on bad days she felt herself fit for the madhouse. To become part of the clique, one had to be beautiful, amusing, or both, and not too obscure or unconnected. Susan Mary met the requirements. She was pretty enough for the fearsome editor of
Harper’s Bazaar
, Carmel Snow, to have her regularly photographed, and so striking that Balenciaga sold her dresses at a special price for her to wear at society affairs as a
mannequin du monde
. She was also fashionable enough to be a regular guest of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor in Paris and Antibes. She could be trusted to make conversation about anything, from politics to gossip, and, unlike other society women, she was truly interested in the future of humanity. She read the morning papers not just to shine in the evening but because she had a genuine hope that peace might last and be even more exciting than war.
Still, Susan Mary was not at ease with her glamorous image. When Carmel Snow’s assistants admired photographs of her reclining on a sofa in a low-cut evening gown and said she looked like a painting by David, “
mais très
ladylike,” she disagreed, thinking she had an idiotic, frozen expression. She blamed herself for idleness since she had stopped working for the Red Cross and considered her French inadequate—for years she would keepmaking mistakes on the gender of nouns. The letters she sent home dwelled on supposed failures and brushed aside achievements. She described going to tea at the house of a Frenchman who immediately tried to get her into bed. She fought back like a frightened schoolgirl and fled, instead of withdrawing gracefully. The next day, her coat, hat, and gloves were returned and the rejected party became a close friend. She sighed with relief and noted, “Frenchmen may be wonderful lovers. I wouldn’t know. Certainly they are very good thwarted lovers, bearing no rancor.” 3
Another story she told against herself was about the charity ball she organized for war orphans. She had reserved the Pré Catelan, a famous restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne, for May 28, 1946, but nobody was buying tickets. In despair, Susan Mary went one morning to the embassy, begging Diana Cooper for help. Sitting in her bed of red damask, a massive Empire affair with carved bare-breasted Egyptian figures, the ambassadress, who loved acting as fairy godmother, hatched a plan. The next day, she and Susan Mary made the rounds of the couturiers, ordering fabric, reserving masks, and loudly congratulating themselves on their good luck at finding a few things still available so near to the date of an important ball. The rumor spread, the tickets sold like hotcakes, and the fete was saved.
Susan Mary had long learned to hide and overcome her lingering feelings of inadequacy. Even more than Washington, Paris demanded that she camouflage any weakness and refuse to feel sorry for herself. One had to keep in line with the relentless perfection of society life. So Susan Mary played her role at embassy receptions with quiet grace, then went home andmischievously commented on them with Bill. Small parties were the best. At the end of the day, the regulars would gather around the fireplace in the green salon on the second floor and drink their liquor neat. There was Evelyn Waugh, whose friendship with Diana was as famous as the fits of rage he sparked off in Duff; Nancy Mitford, who watched her lover, Gaston Palewski, flirt with other women while noting the idiosyncrasies of her fellow guests for her next novel; and, above all, Louise de Vilmorin, enthroned at Diana’s side, gloomy when neglected and brilliant when everybody was listening to her. One evening, Susan Mary witnessed her fling a lump of butter to the ceiling (where it stuck) to bring herself back to the center of attention. The fiery intensity of Cocteau’s monologues scared her a little, but she thought it charming that Christian Bérard should throw himself
Harper’s Bazaar
, Carmel Snow, to have her regularly photographed, and so striking that Balenciaga sold her dresses at a special price for her to wear at society affairs as a
mannequin du monde
. She was also fashionable enough to be a regular guest of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor in Paris and Antibes. She could be trusted to make conversation about anything, from politics to gossip, and, unlike other society women, she was truly interested in the future of humanity. She read the morning papers not just to shine in the evening but because she had a genuine hope that peace might last and be even more exciting than war.
Still, Susan Mary was not at ease with her glamorous image. When Carmel Snow’s assistants admired photographs of her reclining on a sofa in a low-cut evening gown and said she looked like a painting by David, “
mais très
ladylike,” she disagreed, thinking she had an idiotic, frozen expression. She blamed herself for idleness since she had stopped working for the Red Cross and considered her French inadequate—for years she would keepmaking mistakes on the gender of nouns. The letters she sent home dwelled on supposed failures and brushed aside achievements. She described going to tea at the house of a Frenchman who immediately tried to get her into bed. She fought back like a frightened schoolgirl and fled, instead of withdrawing gracefully. The next day, her coat, hat, and gloves were returned and the rejected party became a close friend. She sighed with relief and noted, “Frenchmen may be wonderful lovers. I wouldn’t know. Certainly they are very good thwarted lovers, bearing no rancor.” 3
Another story she told against herself was about the charity ball she organized for war orphans. She had reserved the Pré Catelan, a famous restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne, for May 28, 1946, but nobody was buying tickets. In despair, Susan Mary went one morning to the embassy, begging Diana Cooper for help. Sitting in her bed of red damask, a massive Empire affair with carved bare-breasted Egyptian figures, the ambassadress, who loved acting as fairy godmother, hatched a plan. The next day, she and Susan Mary made the rounds of the couturiers, ordering fabric, reserving masks, and loudly congratulating themselves on their good luck at finding a few things still available so near to the date of an important ball. The rumor spread, the tickets sold like hotcakes, and the fete was saved.
Susan Mary had long learned to hide and overcome her lingering feelings of inadequacy. Even more than Washington, Paris demanded that she camouflage any weakness and refuse to feel sorry for herself. One had to keep in line with the relentless perfection of society life. So Susan Mary played her role at embassy receptions with quiet grace, then went home andmischievously commented on them with Bill. Small parties were the best. At the end of the day, the regulars would gather around the fireplace in the green salon on the second floor and drink their liquor neat. There was Evelyn Waugh, whose friendship with Diana was as famous as the fits of rage he sparked off in Duff; Nancy Mitford, who watched her lover, Gaston Palewski, flirt with other women while noting the idiosyncrasies of her fellow guests for her next novel; and, above all, Louise de Vilmorin, enthroned at Diana’s side, gloomy when neglected and brilliant when everybody was listening to her. One evening, Susan Mary witnessed her fling a lump of butter to the ceiling (where it stuck) to bring herself back to the center of attention. The fiery intensity of Cocteau’s monologues scared her a little, but she thought it charming that Christian Bérard should throw himself
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