James Bond: The Authorised Biography

by John Pearson

  I asked him about getting thrown out of Eton. How did Aunt Charmian react?

  ‘Oh, she was wonderful, although I know that she was bitterly upset. You see, the dear old thing had this firm idea that I was infected with what she used to call “the curse of the Bonds”, and that her task in life was to save me from it. When I got into Eton she thought that I would be a gentleman at last. Now that I was leaving under a cloud she really thought that I was going to the dogs.’

  ‘Wasn't she angry?’

  ‘No. That was the marvellous thing about her. She never blamed me. She blamed herself. Made me feel dreadful. There was quite a rumpus in the family about me. My mother's people seemed to think that I should go to Switzerland and live with them. The family in Glencoe seemed in favour of sending me to prison. As a compromise I was finally packed off to my father's old school, Fettes. I rather liked it after Eton, stayed there until sixteen, then got fed up with it. Decided it was time to move on. Got to Geneva University. And that was where the trouble really started.’

  *

  Bond explained that the strange decision to study at Geneva came through the Delacroixs. Ever since the Eton episode old man Delacroix had kept pressing for him to spend some time in Switzerland. Finally James Bond suggested the idea of studying at the university as something of a compromise. The Delacroixs would pay but he would naturally have rooms close to the university; for by now James Bond was keen on having his independence. Above all, he wanted the chance to live his own life free from the crush of communal living in a boarding school.

  Surprisingly, he liked Geneva. One says “surprisingly” because the prim, staid city is hardly the background one associates with Bond. And yet as soon as he arrived he felt at home here. Part of the explanation may be that he was half Swiss, and part that he was suddenly experiencing freedom here for the first time in his life. But there was something else about Geneva that appealed to him, and he agreed with Ian Fleming on the subject. For both of them it had, what Fleming called, a ‘Simenon-like quality – the quality that makes a thriller-writer want to take a tin-opener and find out what goes on behind the façade, behind the great families who keep the banner of Calvin flying behind the lace curtains in their fortresses in the Rue des Granges, the secrets behind the bronze grilles of the great Swiss banking corporations, the hidden turmoil behind the beautiful bland face of the country’.

  This then was Switzerland for Bond, and he was fascinated by it. He had two rooms with a respectable Swiss lady over a sweet-shop off the Quai Gustave Ador. In theory, the good lady was supposed to keep a strict eye on him both for the university and the family. In fact, James Bond soon used the charm on her that worked infallibly with elderly ladies of all nationalities; within a month he had Frau Nisberg round his little finger. For the first time in his life he found himself free to do exactly as he wanted.

  He worked – a little; enough at any rate to satisfy the university. He attended lectures in psychology and law and read quite widely. Otherwise, he amused himself. Right from the start, he showed himself quite self-sufficient. He was completely selfish. Apart from girls, he had no need for other people in his life, and was extraordinarily single-minded in the way he went after what he wanted. That first winter in Geneva he fell in love with winter sports.

  As with his golf, James Bond was not a stylish skier. He was too wild to become a star. But he had total dedication, outstanding stamina, and he loved taking risks. Near Chamonix there is a famous ski-run, the so-called Aiguilli du Midi, which in its day was the supreme test of all the top-flight internationals. One of the young instructors with the university ski-club constantly referred to it. He was a conceited and unpleasant young man who liked to show off to the novices. These included Bond, who was officially still in the beginners' class. Bond resented him. He, in turn, took every opportunity to make a fool of Bond. After one final training session during which the instructor behaved more obnoxiously than usual, Bond decided he had had enough. The instructor had been making fun of James Bond's style, or lack of it, and saying that he should try it out on the Aiguilli du Midi – then he would see how long he lasted.

  ‘Fine,’ said James Bond, ‘we'll try.’

  The instructor said this was impossible. Chamonix was two hours' drive from Geneva, and he was only joking. James Bond replied that he never joked. Early next morning the two of them set off. By the time they had reached the top of the ski lift, the instructor was begging Bond to come to his senses. He apologized for seeming to make fun of him. He would make any restitution that he pleased. But he must realize that if he attempted the Aiguilli he would quite certainly be killed. Bond made no reply except to ask him if he wanted to go first or second. The instructor, thinking that Bond would need help, said he would follow him.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Bond as he checked his skis.

  The beginning of the Aiguilli is spectacular. There is a straight drop of more than a mile between the narrow shoulders of the mountain; from there the ski-run passes between rocks and clumps of pine then plunges down into the valley. The hazard comes from the sheer speed of the descent – after that first drop the skiers are hurtling on at speeds approaching sixty miles an hour. To keep control at such a speed is a supreme test of nerve and skill.

  Bond put on his goggles and, without looking back, thrust himself off. To this day he is not sure how he survived. Some instinct from generations of mountaineers must have helped preserve him – also his strength and his beginner's luck. For the hair-raising first mile of the descent he thought that he had gone. He had no control – nothing except the will to stay alive. But then he realized that he was winning. His mind was very clear. The closeness of death was sharpening his reactions; for the first time he was enjoying the one drug to which he would always be addicted – danger.

  The remainder of the run was an experience of pure exhilaration which he has never forgotten. At the bottom of the slope he didn't wait for the instructor, and never spoke to him again – nor did he ever go back to the beginners' class.

  But this piece of bravado was important for James Bond. Once he had tasted such excitement he needed more. From that moment on, life became a pursuit of such extremes. It was around this time that he met a Russian student called Gregoriev – a drunken, violent youth with a black beard. He was an anarchist, and Bond enjoyed hearing him rail against society, morality and all the forces of their so-called civilization. Something deep down in Bond agreed with him and they often drank together late into the night. It was during one of these drunken sessions that Gregoriev introduced James Bond to Russian roulette. He produced a rusty .32 Smith and Weston, put in a single bullet, spun the chamber, put it against his forehead and pulled the trigger.

  Bond asked him why he did it. Gregoriev's reply was to provide James Bond with something of a motto in the months ahead.

  ‘Ah,’ said Gregoriev, ‘mais j'adore les sensations fortes.’

  As a gambler, Bond could appreciate the logic of Gregoriev but he loved life too much to follow him. When the Russian offered him the gun he refused it. He had other ways by now of finding les sensations fortes.

  One was through skiing. Now that he had conquered the Aiguilli, nothing could hold him back, and he soon gained a reputation as the wildest skier in the university. When he was writing of the events described in On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Fleming was impressed to discover that Bond had been down the Cresta run in a bobsleigh about this time. Bond also mountaineered under the most hazardous conditions. It was all a way of proving himself and of enjoying les sensations fortes. For Bond insists that he took these risks out of sheer joy of life, and was indignant when a psychiatrist suggested that he was suffering from an acute death wish. Fleming understood him here. In Dr. No he writes of Bond's ‘usual blind faith that he would win the duel’. Bond says that this faith has never quite deserted him.

  There were other motives though behind Bond's mountaineering which Fleming failed to understand. Bond climbed because his
father had. At times he bitterly regretted that Andrew Bond was dead. In From Russia With Love, Fleming described him flying above the Alps and, looking down, imagining himself again ‘a young man in his teens, with the leading end of the rope round his waist, bracing himself against the top of a rock chimney on the Aiguilles Rouges’. What Fleming didn't know was the emotional battle there had been behind the climb. As he looked down from his aircraft, Bond was not having the nostalgic memories that Fleming seemed to think. He was remembering a very private battle long ago as he had forced himself to follow a certain route up the mountainside in an attempt to lay the ghosts of his dead parents.

  During his first months at Geneva, Bond had been developing his appetite for life. He was voracious. The same greed which had made him a glutton as a small boy was now directed outwards, and he was hungry for experience. One of his girl-friends was to compare him with the character of Nora in Ibsen's The Doll's House – always waiting for something umnderbar to happen. But that first Easter in Geneva, it must have seemed as if this ‘something umnderbar’ had finally arrived.

  It was the beginning of April. Term was over, but James Bond was in no hurry to leave Geneva. He enjoyed the rackety routine of life with old Frau Nisberg; he enjoyed the silence of his room with its views across the lake; he enjoyed Frau Nisberg's cooking. He had told Aunt Charmian that he would be back with her for Easter, but the thought of England secretly depressed him – that grey weather, that appalling food and all those boring dreary people. Even the thought of dear Aunt Charmian failed to reconcile him to England. He would recognize the anxiety behind her smile. She would be worrying what he was up to. And brother Henry would be there. He would much rather not see brother Henry. So James Bond decided to stay in Geneva just a few days longer.

  The day after he made this decision, he was awakened by the noise of a car hooting in the street outside. This was unusual in that sleepy side-street and Bond, who had been late to bed, tried ignoring it. The noise continued. Finally Bond, bleary-eyed, looked through the window. There in the street below stood the gleaming form of a café-au-lait Hispano-Suiza. In the driver's seat, thumb firmly on the horn, sat his friend ‘Burglar’. Bond forgot his tiredness. He forgot Easter in England. Within half an hour he was dressed, packed, breakfasted and sitting beside Burglar bound for Paris.

  Although Bond had had little contact with the Brintons since leaving Eton, he was as fascinated as ever by the rich. From that previous trip to Paris, he had picked up the idea of money as a source of freedom, glamour and excitement – in short, for those sensations fortes for which he craved. Now he was having a fresh chance to sample them, for Burglar wanted him to spend Easter with him. Without a second's hesitation Bond agreed.

  It was a memorable day with the great car sweeping towards Paris through the early spring. They stopped at Mâcon where they lunched off Poulards comme chez soi at the Auberge Bressane. Burglar insisted on champagne. When they drove on to Paris, he promised Bond that they would have a night to remember. Bond, slightly drunk, agreed. And so occurred that evening which Fleming has described as ‘one of the most memorable of his life’.

  As a keen reader of the old Continental Daily Mail, Bond remembered the advertisements for Harry's Bar. This seemed the acme of sophistication and it was there that they began. They drank more champagne. They dined in style at Fouquets (on Brinton père's account). Inevitably, they wondered where they could find a woman.

  ‘Nothing but the best,’ said Bond.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Burglar.

  At this time the most notorious, if not quite the most fashionable, brothel in Paris, was the Elysée on the Place Vendôme. Le Chabanaif was wilder, Le Fourcy enjoyed a reputation still for the blowsy splendours of la belle époque. The Elysée was different. The superb eighteenth-century house was run like a London club, complete with doorman in full livery, smoking-room with hide armchairs and library smelling of cigar smoke where it was strictly forbidden to talk. The one unusual feature of the place was the presence of a lot of pretty girls with nothing on.

  Although distinctly drunk by now, Bond seems to have treated the whole situation with the self-assurance one would hope for – Burglar likewise. The Brinton name secured them entry. According to Fleming, Bond was still a virgin. Bond, in the interests of strict accuracy, insists that technically this was not quite true. But he agrees that this was the first time that he enjoyed the real pleasure that would loom so large in all his subsequent adventures.

  ‘Until then I hadn't really known what it was there for.’

  The girl's name was Alys. She was from Martinique – short, slightly plump, demure and adept in the arts of love. She giggled at him (thus revealing dimples and small perfect teeth), praised his looks, admired his virility, and, in a 500-franc room on the second floor, gave him the courage to accomplish creditably what, by its nature, was still unfamiliar. As an afterthought she stole his pocket book. It contained 1,000 francs, a passport and photographs of his parents. Bond noticed his loss just as he was leaving.

  It was stupid of the girl, for the Elysée was respectable. So were its clients. None of them went there for the pleasure of losing pocket books. None of them wanted trouble. So when James Bond, aggressive, outraged and fractionally drunk by now, knocked out the liveried doorman and began shouting for the manager, the manager arrived. Her name was Marthe de Brandt.

  Although forgotten now, Marthe de Brandt was famous in her day. The daughter of a judge and a famous courtesan, she was something more than the successful harlot she became. She was beautiful, abandoned and ambitious. She was also undoubtedly intelligent and well-educated. By twenty she was rich, by twenty-five, notorious. Thanks to the generosity of de Combray, the armaments king, she attained sufficient capital to open her own establishment. Thanks to her own attractions, she made the place something exceptional in the pleasure-life of Paris. It was her idea to call it the Elysée after the presidential palace. It was also her idea to base the décor on a London club. Within a few months of opening, it had become an unofficial centre for the political élite of France.

  Like many of her kind, Marthe de Brandt was something of a spy. It was not hard for her to gather information from her guests and it was mere common sense to sell it to the highest bidder. At the time that James Bond met her she was already in her late twenties and a little past her prime – small, very blonde, with a determined mouth and periwinkle eyes. She was very rich. As far as one can be precise about such things, she worked mainly for the Eastern powers.

  It is hard to know what such a woman can have seen in young James Bond. Hardly sex – she must have had enough of that. Nor love – the idea seemed absurd. At the time the general explanation was that she wanted someone to corrupt. If by corruption in this context one means teaching a younger person every known form of copulation, then Marthe de Brandt corrupted him. But there was more to the relationship than this. Both of them must have found something they needed in each other. For James Bond she may have been the amorous equivalent of the Aiguilli run. For her the precocious English boy was probably the son she wanted.

  The strange thing is that she fell for him at once. Even young Brinton was surprised at the apologetic way this famous woman treated him, reprimanding the unfortunate doorman, summoning the girl, and, after slapping her face, dismissing her on the spot. Then Marthe de Brandt promised Bond that he would have his property returned the morning after, when she had finished her inquiries.

  Bond spent the night at the Brinton flat on the Boulevard Haussmann. When he awoke a messenger had already brought him an envelope. Inside was his pocket book. It contained two crisp ten-thousand franc notes – also a letter from Marthe de Brandt inviting him to supper.

  The remainder of that Easter holiday is something Bond won't talk about. His friends, the Brintons, saw little of him. Nor did Aunt Charmian. Marthe had a small flat in the tiny Place Furstenburg off the Rue Jacob. For the next few months this became his home.

  He obsessed he
r as no man had done before. She obsessed him as no woman would again. His studies suffered – so did her business. Neither of them seemed to notice. The amour fou between Marthe de Brandt and her young Englishman became the talk of Paris.

  It was a Chérie-like affaire. She indulged and spoiled him. He appeared to be her creature. During that Paris spring-time they went everywhere together – to see the horses run at Longchamp (where he was bored), to watch the twenty-four-hour race at Le Mans (where he wanted to drive) and to the latest show at Le Boeuf sur le Toit (where, for the first time in her life, she felt jealous). They drank a lot, fought a lot and loved a lot. She had his suits made by a famous tailor in the Rue de Rivoli, arranged him boxing lessons with Charpentier. When they felt bored, they drove down to Antibes where she had a wistaria-covered villa hidden among the pines. She bought him the famous Bentley with the Villiers supercharger. (Fleming got the details of the purchase slightly wrong – also, of course, the date, one of a number of inaccuracies which have caused Bond subsequent embarrassment.)

  Despite their difference of age, they seemed to have appeared a well-matched couple; she was so small and fair and doll-like, he so tall and mature for his age. For these few months they led a charmed existence, almost oblivious of others. Aunt Charmian wrote anxious letters until old Gregor Bond told her he would get over it. Burglar's father tried to warn him of a woman like de Brandt. One night, as they were dining in the crowded Restaurant des Beaux Arts, they heard a drunk American call out, ‘Here is the lovely Marthe and her English poodle.’ It was a well-known brawler called Sailor Hendrix. Bond hit him very hard between the eyes, then pushed his head into his onion soup.