From their first meeting Sybille was fascinated by Renée, a “great handsome monster…[with] large prominent blue eyes…a nose like a parrot’s beak…[and] a smile of serene, archaic sweetness.” Within a short while Sybille became included in the Kislings’ family life, with Renée keeping a motherly eye on her, not hesitating to criticise or scold when necessary. She was a superb cook, and Sybille loved to watch her at work, acting as her sous-chef in the kitchen. A powerful swimmer, Renée kept her own fishing boat, on which in the early mornings Sybille sometimes accompanied her. They “would go out on the dawn sea, still, flat and grey, far out beyond the sight of land: fish, then swim off the boat and swim again, and return before high noon. That was magical.” Tough, generous and quick-tempered, Renée did exactly as she pleased, indifferent to others’ opinion, showing no compunction in openly indulging her strong sexual appetite with both men and women. “Si on est ami,” she used to say, “il n’a aucune différence si on fait l’amour avec” (“If you are friends, it’s all alright to make love together”). Indeed Sybille was one of several female friends with whom Renée had a physical relationship, taking her upstairs to bed one night and making love to her “in a manner compounded of protectiveness, sensuality and great ease.”
For Sybille this was almost certainly an initiation, a profoundly moving experience and one which she never forgot. From a young age Sybille had been attracted to her own sex, developing powerful crushes in early adolescence on a number of her mother’s women friends. With Renée, she had taken a first step into an adult world, drawn into a warm, maternal friendship that seamlessly expanded into one of tender eroticism.
An occasion to which Sybille during the summer always looked forward was the film show on Sunday nights. The shabby little two-tier cinema, housed in a converted garage, was a popular venue, the ground floor packed with noisy young men and their girlfriends drinking and smoking, while upstairs respectable tradesmen sat with their wives. Sybille and Lisa often attended together, both of them enjoying the outing. “The screen was bad, the piano lively…[the films] were good. Movies: black and white, silent. American mostly…Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd.” One evening while waiting for the show to begin, they noticed a couple of strangers walk in. “They were slim like cats’ shadows, matched in size, quietly, gracefully moving side by side…Stylish and aloof, they seemed apparitions stepped from the vanguard of some coming world…To me, they were the most beautiful pair of human beings I had ever seen.”
Pierre and Jacqueline Mimerel, both of whom were to make a significant impact on Sybille’s life, were newly arrived in Sanary, currently living in a rented villa on the western side of the bay. In their early thirties, the couple were cultured and sophisticated, obviously well-to-do, recently arrived from Paris to start a new life in the south for the sake of Pierre’s somewhat fragile health. Until recently Pierre had been working for the firm of Bernard Grasset, publisher of, among others, Proust, Maurois, Mauriac and Henry de Montherlant; before long, however, the results of his traumatic wartime experiences—the loss of three brothers, he himself fighting in the trenches aged only sixteen—proved seriously damaging and he was advised to leave Paris for good.
The Mimerels quickly became part of that small group of Sanary society to which the Marchesanis belonged. On the surface the two couples liked each other well enough, although there were some significant areas of incompatibility. Politically, Pierre was on the far right, which Lisa found distasteful, while he disapproved of what he saw as her extreme leftist stance, as he did that of the Kislings and others of their political persuasion. Socially, however, the pair proved agreeable company, Pierre courteous, intelligent and well read, while Jacqueline could be delightful, much admired for her vivacity and chic. Both were tall, slender and elegantly dressed, bringing with them an aura of metropolitan glamour to this small seaside community.
For Sybille the arrival of the Mimerels was to effect a transformation. Not only was she spellbound by their style and sophistication but she soon found herself inextricably bound up with both on a number of levels. With Pierre, as well as an interest in French history and literature, she discovered a shared passion for cars. Nori, a keen motorist himself, had begun teaching Sybille to drive, taking her out in a small, second-hand Peugeot he had recently acquired. One hot afternoon while the two of them were stalled on the quayside, with Sybille laboriously trying to shift gear, Jacqueline suddenly appeared. She quickly suggested that Sybille learn in one of their own much more modern vehicles; not only that, but the mechanic they employed would act as instructor, an offer that was eagerly accepted. “I was car-mad…speed-mad as well…I snatched at the chance of driving any wheels on offer.” Sybille passed her test at the first attempt, after which to her intense delight she often found herself motoring about the countryside with Pierre, spending happy hours with him in his garage, tinkering with the engines of his impressive collection, the pride of which was a De Dion-Bouton of 1911.
For the rest of her life Sybille remained devoted to Pierre, loving him for his kindness and calm temperament, looking on him as her father figure: “je suis fier d’être ton père” (“I am proud to be your father”), he told her more than once. Despite his right-wing politics, Sybille admired his wisdom and learning, as she did his irony and wit. Pierre’s “daily life was animated by laughter…being with him entailed constant teases, often at one’s own expense.”
With Pierre’s wife Sybille’s relationship was very different. With Jacqueline she fell helplessly in love: indeed almost from the moment they met, Sybille was smitten by this tall, slender, dark-haired beauty. Jacqueline was witty and intelligent, although, unlike her husband, in no sense an intellectual; “her springboard was triviality and one-upmanship…a hunger…to be effective, to make a great splash.” Jacqueline craved admiration, needed to be the centre of attention, although it was male attention she was after, rather than the yearning of an eighteen-year-old girl. Sybille’s adoration irritated her yet at the same time it gave her a satisfying sense of power; when in company Jacqueline was charming to Sybille, ruffling her hair, treating her like a clever child; but when they were alone she often made her impatience clear, was brisk, cutting, dismissive, although she could also switch with disconcerting speed to provocative and flirtatious, teasing Sybille by comparing their relationship to that of the young Octavian and the Marschallin in Der Rosenkavalier.
Looking back many years later Sybille recalled her love for Jacqueline mostly in terms of anguish. Her obsession was overwhelming, she thought of Jacqueline every waking moment, longing for her presence, counting the minutes between one meeting and the next. “In the mornings I would hang about the place waiting for her to appear, rush to her car, open the door before it had stopped, kiss her hand…snatch at anything portable…Then I’d follow her to Chez Benech, the crémerie, the fruit stalls. When my presence bored her—often—she showed it…I knew I was being teased. I knew I was making a fool of myself. It changed nothing…[I was] lost in love.”
Meanwhile Sybille’s life at home continued much as before. Nori’s business was prospering: as well as his building work, he had begun to sell Provençal furniture, driving out into the country with Lisa, who enjoyed such expeditions, looking for the antique tables, chairs and chests of drawers certain to appeal to the sophisticated society which in increasing numbers were now renting houses on the coast. The Marchesanis’ own standard of living had markedly improved: the villa in which they were currently staying, La Tranquille, had been made roomy and comfortable and they had a cook and maid to look after them. On evenings at home, the three of them played paper games, which Sybille loved, and games of cards, including patience, at which Nori was expert. “I still see him, that slim young man with his long beautiful hands, bring out the two small packs of pretty cards and lay them out on the dining table…He had a good repertory and taught me some of it; I have often found Miss Milligan or Nine-Up
a soothing resource.”
During this period Sybille and Nori grew closer than ever, tacitly bonding over their shared responsibility to keep watch over Lisa. They enjoyed their mornings together, as Lisa, a bad sleeper, always heavily doped with Veronal, rarely appeared before midday. Sometimes the two of them would drive into town, or out into the country, or simply stay at home doing odd jobs and talking. Nori had recently bought a typewriter, which thrilled Sybille, who saw it as a solution to the illegibility of her handwriting. Nori taught her how to use it, and they would compete to see who could type the fastest. Yet despite the generally peaceful atmosphere both were aware of the dangerous unpredictability of Lisa’s moods, both instantly alert to any sudden change in atmosphere. It was Lisa who was the dominant member of the household, Lisa who had to be the centre of attention. “Without being really selfish or eccentric [Lisa] behaved as though she owned her entourage, and of course above friends and daughter, one owned one’s husband.” When describing the relationship she had with her stepfather at this period, Sybille compared it to that of two brothers, “serving—in different ranks—in the same regiment.” Once when Nori returned to the house after a few days away to find everything in order, he embraced Sybille gratefully. “He touched my shoulder. ‘You have looked after her.’ It was like changing the guard.”
At the beginning of the summer of 1929, Lisa decided to go on her own to Switzerland for a cure: the mountain air, she believed, would do her good. The family was on the point of leaving La Tranquille, which Nori had sold to an old friend of Lisa, from Germany, Hilda von Gunther, whom Sybille fondly remembered from her childhood at Feldkirch. The move to their new house would take place while Lisa was away, and on one of the last evenings at the now almost empty villa Nori decided to give a party: the interior would be transformed into a ship and everyone was asked to come dressed as sailors.
Sybille loved the idea, thrilled when Nori disguised her as a pirate in a striped top and cotton trousers—she had never worn trousers before—colouring her face dark brown, with sideburns and thick black eyebrows drawn in charcoal. They hung Chinese lanterns from the ceiling, Nori mixed huge bowls of punch, and there was a small band on the terrace. The evening was an immense success. “We all danced, regardless of age or sex. I felt carried away, ecstatic, outside myself.” The only disappointment, a considerable one, was that neither of the Mimerels had appeared. Then suddenly at midnight, down from the rafters came swinging two buccaneers, “Levantine pirates, their stylish captain in wig and kerchief…his slim lieutenant bristling with daggers and cutlass in belt”—Pierre and Jacqueline in person. Sybille was ecstatic: nothing could have prepared her for such an intoxicating surprise, nothing, she felt, could exceed her rapture at such a miraculous turn of events.
The next morning, sleepless and still high on the euphoria of the night before, she and Nori decided to drive to Saint-Tropez for lunch. They were accompanied by a brother and sister, Cécile and Frédéric, contemporaries of Sybille’s, whose parents were good friends of the Marchesanis. Cécile had long had a crush on Nori, while Frédéric, who regarded most girls of around his age as potential targets, had for some time had his eye on Sybille. Arriving in Saint-Tropez, they ran into a couple of Nori’s clients, who invited them aboard their yacht for cocktails and a late lunch; this lasted until early evening when the whole party decided to go ashore for drinks and dinner, followed by dancing at a local nightclub. It was 4 a.m. by the time they left, too late to drive home, especially as the car was discovered to have a flat tyre. Luckily, after wandering the streets for a while a small backstreet hotel was found with two rooms available. Nori and Cécile took one, Sybille and Frédéric the other. “We got out of our clothes…and into the bed. Frédéric began making love to me…[He] was very sure of himself—this was evidently not a new experience for him. I did my best not to let him suspect that it was that for me. It didn’t hurt very much, nothing to fuss about; mildly disagreeable all in all.”
For Sybille the incident was of little importance. She had experienced one previous heterosexual encounter, with a cousin of Nori’s who had made a pass at her one day when the two of them were out on a walk. He had sat down with her under a tree, Sybille assumed to have a cigarette. “There ensued, at once and in complete silence, what I had read about as heavy petting. I was too surprised to be taken aback and almost at once surprised again by entirely unexpected and delicious sensations. When we stood up…[we] resumed our walk as though absolutely nothing had occurred.” In personal terms neither Nori’s cousin nor Frédéric meant anything to her, an indifference which Frédéric would shortly come to resent.
By the time Lisa returned to Sanary the move to the new house had been completed. Les Cyprès, by far the most comfortable of their houses so far, was situated about a mile from the centre, to the west towards the more populous town of Bandol. It was an old house, “ochre-washed, one-storeyed, a simple facade of long windows with the faded-blue wooden shutters of the region, standing on the highest of three terraced levels flanked on each side by a row of cypresses…Inside it was cool, the floors plain, polished deep-red tiles, the rooms…well-proportioned, the walls whitewashed, the woodwork in light colours.” Sybille loved Les Cyprès, and looked forward to spending the rest of the summer there.
Meanwhile her passion for Jacqueline continued to obsess her, and each day she went into town, wandering about in the hope of seeing her. Late one morning, when the place was crowded with shoppers, she caught up with Jacqueline just as she was climbing into her car to drive home. In a moment of desperation Sybille for the first time confessed that she loved her. “ ‘May I tell you something?’ ‘Would it amuse me?’ ‘It well might.’…‘In that case do tell me.’ I looked at her. Straight. With complete concentration. Then I uttered the three fatal words…‘You’ve chosen an odd time of day for making your dramatic announcement,’ ” Jacqueline said drily before driving off, leaving Sybille feeling miserable and humiliated and as deeply in love as ever.
At the end of August, when the summer season was nearly over, Pierre came up with the idea of a tennis tournament. Both he and Jacqueline were experts, having played in the past with such stars as Jean Borotra, René Lacoste and Suzanne Lenglen. A date was fixed in the first week of September, the tournament, lasting several days, to take place on the tennis courts at the Grand Hôtel des Bains in Bandol, where a number of notable players were staying. The whole occasion proved a great success, and towards the end of the week an elaborate dinner was held at the hotel, at which both the Mimerels and Marchesanis were present. At the end of the evening, as Nori was backing the car out of the hotel yard the boy Frédéric ran up to them, and in Sybille’s words, “jumped onto the running board…shouting into the open car window, ‘Vous avez mal gardé votre fille, Madame! Elle court après les femmes…’ ” (“You haven’t taken good care of your daughter, Madame! She runs after women…”). Nori quickly drove off, and nothing was said. “Arrived at Les Cyprès, we bade each other a good night.”
Worse was to follow. The next day was the last of the tournament, during which Sybille, by extraordinary chance and to her profound dismay, was matched against Simonne Mathieu, the new French number one. Jacqueline, outraged, considered this ridiculous, and demanded Sybille be withdrawn, but she was overruled by Pierre. Surprisingly, once on court Sybille’s nervousness disappeared and she played well, so that although inevitably she lost, her defeat was far from shameful. That evening a reception was held at the hotel where Jacqueline was to present the prizes. It was a formal occasion, the men in black tie, Sybille, much against her will, wearing a pale blue taffeta evening dress bought for her by Lisa. Towards the end of the proceedings, Sybille’s name was called out and she walked up to the platform to receive a runners-up award from Jacqueline, who, obviously furious, gave it to her but without looking at her or even shaking her hand. “As I walked back, a few baffled people attempted applause.” It was a humiliating e
xperience, and once they were home Lisa exploded, enraged that her daughter’s behaviour had now become public knowledge. She must leave immediately, Lisa said; it was out of the question to remain in Sanary any longer. And two days later Sybille set out on the return journey to London, made miserable by her mother’s words. “You are not afflicted by a great love, you are afflicted by a crush…And don’t go about thinking of yourself as a doomed Baudelairean pervert burdened by the love that dare not speak its name…Come back when you are in a more reasonable mood.”
Ironically, it was Jacqueline who in later years came most to regret the unhappy nature of their relationship. Decades later, after the two of them had come across each other again, she wrote to Sybille, “j’ai beaucoup de regrets et de remords d’avoir été si cruelle, parfois, pour l’enfant que tu étais. J’étais moi-même trop jeune, peut-être, pour comprendre, comme je l’ai compris plus tard, la beauté irremplaçable de ces sentiments si purs, si neufs, si totaux d’une adolescente…Tu n’as, je crois, jamais compris l’émotion que je ressentais et le très émouvant et délicieux souvenir que je garde” (“I feel so much regret and remorse at having been so cruel to the child you then were. I myself was too young, perhaps, to understand, as I understood later, the irreplaceable beauty of those emotions of yours, so pure, so new, so completely those of a young person…You have never, I think, understood the emotion I felt and the very moving and delicious memory that I retain”). As for Sybille, when at the age of seventy she was asked by a friend who had been the greatest loves of her life, she named Jacqueline as one, but with a telling proviso: “In terms of pain, desperation, ‘carried away,’ deep sense of loss: Yes. In terms of fulfilment, life affection: No.”
Sybille Bedford Page 8
