Inevitably, Sybille was profoundly affected by Evelyn’s death, particularly following so soon after the loss of Eda. “I cannot believe it yet…It is very difficult to mourn two people at the same time. Yet I do; and I think the love and tenderness is greater than the grief…Evelyn gave me security…to an extraordinary extent. Indeed she often talked of transferring to a London publishing job to look after me in my old age. We both seemed to have counted on that…She allayed fears, made difficult or dull things seem easy or funny…It will be very difficult to face living without the unique things that both Eda and Evelyn in such very different ways were giving. I must try.” Over the next few months Sybille corresponded with lawyers in New York over Evelyn’s will, she herself named as co-beneficiary; she also spent hours answering letters of condolence from her friends, even summoning the courage to contact for the first time in many years Evelyn’s ex-husband. “Write at last a handwritten note to Milton. An olive branch that does not speak its name.”
Despite her grief, Sybille was determined to stay occupied, maintaining a busy social life, organising the redecoration of her flat, and regularly attending meetings at PEN. A few months before Evelyn’s death Sybille one evening had dined with her old friends, Billy and Jenny Hughes, and with them a woman whom Sybille had first met in the late 1930s. Lesley Huston was the sister of Eda’s then lover, Joan Black, with whom Sybille had been briefly infatuated after the war. On this occasion Sybille found herself drawn to Lesley, “a dear, sensitive, rather subtle person, with much courage and gaiety.” A tall, slender beauty with a head of thick white hair, Lesley was intelligent, musical and well read; she had been married twice, her second husband the film director John Huston, from whom she had been divorced in 1945. An engaging companion, there was also an elusive quality about Lesley, a sense of privacy and self-containment. Not long after the evening with the Hugheses, Lesley invited Sybille to dinner, together with a couple of friends of hers, but the friends cancelled at the last moment so the two women spent the evening on their own. “I felt curiously shy at first,” Sybille told Allanah., but “then it went very well…we talked till nearly 2 a.m….mostly of course about past lives…[I] am getting to like her very much indeed.”
From this time on the two women were frequently in each other’s company, Sybille growing ever more infatuated while Lesley remained warm and affectionate, happy to have Sybille as a dear friend, if not attracted to her as a lover. Entranced by Lesley’s beauty—she arrived one evening “looking as lovely as the queen of the night”—Sybille was delighted that she also shared many of her own intellectual interests, a love of music and art, a passion for literature. Lesley was also a good linguist, long familiar with the same European countries as Sybille. The more she came to know her, the more Sybille was impressed by Lesley’s qualities, “struck as so often by that fantastic talent for seeing, reading, getting at the heart of the matter; L’s response, insight…reminiscent of the young Aldous.” She was knowledgeable, too, about food and wine, a good cook, if not on the same level of expertise as Sybille herself. It was in Lesley’s flat in Ovington Gardens that in April 1978, a “surprise” birthday dinner was held for Richard Olney, the other guests Sybille, Elizabeth David, and also Jeremiah Tower, a friend of Richard’s and a talented young chef from California. It was Jeremiah who undertook the cooking, while Sybille, with great care and concentration, chose the wines, bringing with her as a present six superb bottles of Lafite 1962. A few weeks later, in June, Richard, Sybille, Lesley and Jeremiah went to France, on a tour arranged by Richard, to take part in one of the wine trade’s most prestigious events, the magnificent annual festival staged by the Médoc, Graves, Sauternes and Barsac wine brotherhood, the Commanderie du Bontemps.
This was not the first occasion on which Richard had travelled with Sybille, the previous experience leaving him apprehensive as to how on this occasion she would cope. Over the years Sybille had become increasingly nervous about almost any form of travel, in a frenzy that the train would be late, that no one would be on the platform to meet her, that the taxi ordered would fail to arrive; and now she was terrified by the prospect of flying. Her first flight had been the year before, when she and Richard had flown to Nice, “quite a project,” as Richard had described it. By the time they boarded the plane Sybille was shaking with nerves, repeatedly crossing herself, checking her seat belt every few seconds; when they finally took off, “gasps and more crossings…she untwisted her hands, turned to me without looking out of the window and asked breathlessly, are we in the air?…[I] hugged her tightly, said yes, and that…everything would be all right…She was scarlet with terror, embarrassment and pleasure all at once, then the stewardess announced that due to catering strikes there would be no bar service…depression and terror struck again—one had been depending on the booze—finally got glasses of ice…and slipped duty-free whisky into them—S had brought along sandwiches, determined not to eat any of the poisonous airline food and ended up eating both, the trip was short and suddenly, after the drama of landing, we were in Nice and the sky was blue.”
This second journey, their participation in the famous Fête de la Fleur, the flowering of the vine, later described by Sybille “as pure an enterprise for pleasure as has come my way in many a long year,” proved rather less stressful. During four days the small group visited some of the greatest Bordeaux vineyards, Haut-Brion, Lafite, Ducru-Beaucaillou and Léognan, exploring the cellars, concentratedly tasting the wine, staying each night luxuriously ensconced in one of the great chateaux, where they were entertained to sumptuous luncheons and dinners. At Haut-Brion, “the steel vats gleam; the long, straight lines of barrels look as if they have been waxed…A cellarman appears, five large tulip glasses dangling from one well-used hand. He taps a barrel; a thin red thread curves into the glass. ‘Château Haut-Brion 1977.’ We look, we inhale, we draw in our mouthful: we chew, we think. It is a slow process…utterly absorbing and near an ordeal—the raw tannin puckers the inside of the cheeks, rasps the throat like claws.” At Château Lafite there was a magnificent luncheon in the dining room, around an exquisitely set oval table beneath a great chandelier. “We are offered three clarets, Château Duhart-Milon ’66, Château Lafite ’66 and Lafite ’55…I am very happy.”
The highlight of the Fête de la Fleur was staged at Château Ducru-Beaucaillou, a ceremony held to honour various distinguished members of the trade. “Vignerons, négociants…all are milling about the grounds…M. le Ministre has arrived, and the cheerful charade of citations, the enrobing…of the neophytes, is under way.” To her delight Sybille was among those who were “enthroned”—“Do you think I’m worthy of such an honour?” she had asked Richard nervously beforehand. Afterwards there were aperitifs on the lawn followed by a banquet for all 440 guests, seated at ten tables inside a vast and uncomfortably hot marquee. Disappointingly, the “spectacular” wines “do not give their best. They are warm. Here it is the fault only of circumstances…but the result remains sad. Blood-warm, the Margaux 1970, a Rauzan-Ségla, is in disarray…the beauty of the 1967 Haut-Brion is dissipated almost within seconds in the glass.” Infinitely more pleasurable was the final evening spent staying at Château Loudenne in the Médoc, a “ravishing, low-built, rose-washed chateau,” where a magnificent dinner was given for twelve guests. Afterwards “we returned to the long drawing room; the French windows were open to the summer night, the vines lay still under a slim moon…The mood of the party was serene with that surge of optimism of spirit and physical well-being that comes after a very good wine drunk in congenial company at a leisurely pace.”
Following her return to London, Sybille in a letter to the Sterns described the experience as “so perfect that it is hard to put feet back to earth. Countryside, beauty of vineyards, chateaux, cellars, ordered happy peaceful lives, charming and interesting hosts, superb hospitality, great wines drunk in perfect conditions, human and material, above all the affectionate and happy company of
our own small band of friends.”
This tranquil mood was not to last: shortly after arriving home Sybille received disturbing news from Nice about her sister Katzi, now in her eightieth year. The two had continued to keep in touch, Sybille dutifully visiting Katzi at least once during the months she spent staying at Les Bastides, occasions she slightly dreaded, mainly on account of her dislike for Katzi’s partner, Gino Atanasio. Recently Katzi’s health had started to deteriorate with alarming rapidity. “She has difficulties with her speech,” Sybille reported to Allanah. “She writes ‘c’est dans ma tête [it’s in my head].’ I think you know what she is talking about.” In January 1978, shortly after Evelyn’s death, Sybille had gone to see Katzi, finding her “in a lamentable state. She must have had a kind of stroke; speech difficulties, great weakness, fear. Pitiful to watch.” Then on 12 September, news came that Katzi had died, her death followed shortly afterwards by a cremation in Marseilles. Sybille was in London at the time so did not attend, but a few weeks later, while staying at Les Bastides, Allanah had driven her to Nice to visit Gino, “a heartbroken, and helpless, man.”
Before the end of the year Sybille received further sad news, of the death of two old friends, Eva Herrmann in California, who had died of cancer, and Janet Flanner, who for the past few years had been living in New York, cared for by her devoted companion Natalia Murray. On the day she learned of Janet’s death Sybille was on the point of leaving Les Bastides to join Lesley in Avignon, her sadness about Janet soon overcome by a feeling of intense excitement—“heart turns over”—at the prospect of seeing her adored Lesley after so many weeks apart. The two of them drove to London, where they spent a quiet Christmas together before going to Oxfordshire to celebrate the New Year with Anne Balfour at her cottage at Long Wittenham. With Anne was her partner of over a decade, Marie-Thérèse d’Arcangues, a “thin, hard-drinking, frustrated, neurotic poet figure,” as Sybille described her. When Sybille and Lesley arrived they found the two women “muffled, stiff…playing at wood-cutters…M-Th, cursing like a trouper, lugs in logs…We thaw over tea by the fire.”
Over the following years Sybille came to love Cruck Cottage, a tiny fourteenth-century cottage with a low thatched roof and a pretty garden, “minute & magical.” Indoors was a low-ceilinged parlour, leading off it a miniature kitchen, and above, up a creaking wooden staircase, a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. Celebrating the New Year at Cruck was to become a much-loved tradition for Sybille. On this occasion, she and Lesley were led into the cosy interior, Anne producing tea and scones while Marie-Thérèse, “pipe au bec” (“pipe in mouth”), piled logs onto the blazing fire. The following day was given over to preparations for the New Year Eve’s feast, every detail of it relished by Sybille. In the evening, while birds roasted on a spit over the fire, she busied herself with “drinks, buttling, spitting, fire building, foie gras jelly chopping. During which we open and drink two bottles of champagne…The goose foie gras almost unbearably good…It was like a pain to eat the last of it. The partridges, one each, were perfectly roasted. We ate them bones in hand tearing them apart. Both Riojas had strength and fruit, the ’70 quite subtle. The lovely Sauternes was just the right thing to drink on the sinking evening of the year. Which came (with telly blaring alas) and we all embraced in our various permutations with goodwill and tenderness.”
Since Eda’s death Sybille had been living on her own for the first time in over twenty years. Somewhat to her surprise she found she enjoyed the independence and privacy, as long as there were friends near at hand with whom she could be easily in touch. London was now the city where she felt most at home, “liking it more and more every year”; during her annual stay at Les Bastides, she would complain of homesickness, of how much she missed London, “the life, the friends, the friends at the end of a telephone, the books, a hundred and one things to do.” Recently Sybille had become the owner of the little flat in Old Church Street, the money she had inherited from both Eda and Evelyn enabling her to purchase it, and also the apartment above; this she was able to let, providing a satisfying addition to what was now a more than adequate income. Since the property was hers, Sybille took pleasure in having the place repaired and redecorated, arranging everything exactly as she wanted it: her wine stored near the entrance, the tiny parlour, with its “Spartan sofa” and grey metal desk, also acting as dining room and study. Against the wall was a tall bookcase, on top of which stood ten empty bottles, souvenirs of her most revered wines. In the shady garden at the back Sybille grew lettuces and herbs in the small flower bed, always punctilious in remembering to put out food for the birds.
For some months Sybille had been hoping to return to work, planning to write a book about her travels in Europe, but somehow the project failed to materialise. Then in May 1979, she attended the trial at the Old Bailey of Jeremy Thorpe, long a distinguished Member of Parliament and until recently leader of the Liberal Party, who had been accused of conspiracy to murder. At first, like many others, Sybille believed Thorpe to be innocent, but as the hearing progressed she grew increasingly disillusioned, in her notebook recording her disgust at the sensational revelations—“whole thing sordid/tedious.” Finally after a long four weeks, she decided against writing about it, dismissing the whole process as “LURID RUBBISH.”
Although relieved to have the Thorpe trial behind her, Sybille still found it impossible to return to work. One barrier was the irksome burden of household chores. “I find it very hard to conserve time, peace, energy for work when there is so much to be done to keep clean and mended, let alone shopped, cooked and entertaining one’s friends,” she complained. “I had not realised how much Eda did…I miss Eda, and Evelyn, appallingly and constantly…yet I quite enjoy living alone (apart from the doubling of daily grind)…I dine out a great deal.”
As indeed she did. Now approaching seventy, Sybille over the years had amassed a large number of friends, and was constantly adding to her social circle, going out most evenings, coming into contact with new worlds and sections of society. Intelligent and well read, with her novelist’s fascination for the world around her, Sybille was a rewarding guest, although the quick, quiet patter of her speech often made her hard to understand. “She talks as it were to herself,” as Elaine Robson-Scott remarked, she, Martha and Allanah, among others, frequently complaining to Sybille that they were unable to understand a word she said. In her diary Sybille wrote, a “great tease has sprung up [about]…my ‘petits bruits’…It appears I emit little noises (squeaks? mutters) and always have. More than suspects, it’s true.”
One morning Sybille was woken by the telephone at 10 a.m. “Someone says Shirley and asks me to dinner. Answer sleepily but with utter readiness. Live in Regent’s Park had said you do remember me? Enthusiastic yes on my part. Dawns slowly that it’s someone I don’t remember at all. ‘Women will wear long skirts too.’ What have I let myself in for.” The caller turned out to be Shirley Letwin, she and her husband, William, both wealthy American academics, living in one of the beautiful Nash houses on the edge of Regent’s Park. Here they entertained lavishly, their guests mainly writers, philosophers and Conservative politicians. Both Letwins had great charm, and after the inevitable anxieties over finding a suitable skirt and whether the minicab would arrive on time, Sybille found herself enjoying the occasion. She took to both her hosts, and relished talking to her fellow guests, among them Melvin Laski, editor of Encounter, and also the writer Peter Vansittart, who delighted her by comparing her fiction to the novels of Proust. During a subsequent evening at Kent Terrace, she met Kingsley Amis and his novelist wife, Elizabeth Jane Howard. Although slightly wary of Kingsley—“Suspect of leftish tendencies…Not sure I liked him”—she was enchanted by Jane, “very lovely, very Junoesque,” relishing their conversation “about food, cookery…[and] on trying a fish suet pie.”
Another friendship formed at this period was with the writer Bruce Chatwin. In 1978 Sybille had enthusiastically
reviewed Chatwin’s first book, In Patagonia, which she described as “one of the most exhilarating travel books I have read.” That same month Sybille, accompanied by Lesley, met Chatwin at a dinner given by Sybille’s doctor and friend, Patrick Woodcock, “a very good animated evening,” she reported. Sometime later Bruce returned the compliment by writing admiringly in Vogue of A Visit to Don Otavio,* shortly afterwards inviting Sybille to dine at his tiny mews flat in Belgravia, her fellow guest his young lover, the fashion designer Jasper Conran. The evening was judged by Sybille to be “one of the ‘weirdest’ I ever had. Much enjoyment, exquisite food and drink, Bruce’s incomparable conversation…His young friend…so beautiful at times, so odd at others…talk about clothes designing (Conran’s prêt-à-porter), Ken Macpherson, Capri,” then with Jasper “the drive back through the night…in a red open classic Mercedes drown in wind and very loud DON GIOVANNI.”
Rather less enjoyable was a dinner, again given by Patrick Woodcock, for Sybille and Richard Olney to meet the painter David Hockney. Patrick, a charming and exuberant host, knew little about wine, so Sybille offered to bring two bottles of the finest claret, Haut-Brion and Cos d’Estournel. When Richard arrived to collect her, he helped her decant the wine, the two of them in the taxi carefully holding the decanters between their knees to avoid disturbing the contents. On arrival Sybille asked Patrick to place the wine in a cool corner until dinner was served. When Hockney appeared, rather late, and was asked what he wanted to drink he answered, “plonk.” According to Richard’s account, Patrick, in a panic, “raced out and snatched the decanter of Haut-Brion, Sybille rose in horror, as if levitated, and wailed, ‘OH NOooo, not that!’ Patrick sheepishly returned it and came back with the Cos d’Estournel. It was hopeless. Sybille and David Hockney detested each other at sight…[and] the evening went from bad to worse. Without addressing Sybille, David offered to drive me home. Sybille said, ‘Young man, you will drive me home first!’ He decided to drop her at the corner of Old Church Street and she murmured through clenched teeth, ‘You will drive me to my door.’ After I had seen Sybille to her door and returned to the car, David said, ‘Who the fuck is that old bitch?’ ”
Sybille Bedford Page 38
