Savage Grace - Natalie Robins

by Savage Grace- The True Story of Fatal Relations in a Rich

  From time to time—at 4 A.M. or 5—I wonder why I am involved in all these banalities and I dearly wish for the peace and contemplation necessary to go on with my novel.

  To listen to the sound of rain would be such a joy…an awareness of time—one’s own, that is. One thing I have thought is that the more complex the synapses in the brain, the further the curve to infinity—for didn’t Einstein say that infinity was comprised of many small dots that became through denseness a kind of exponential curve?

  I wish I could see you. You are one of the halves of my reality, the other being Tony. I miss you both, and all my friends, and I cannot stand the lower-middle-class Englishman—the shopkeeper with his servility, his inefficiency, and appalling snobbishness. I really dislike the English as much as I can anyone & I’m sure my Celtic blood knows why.

  I just hope I haven’t made a horrible mistake with this flat. Would so much rather be working on Miramar and waiting for you to (maybe!) show up—I’m such a hopeless optimist.

  In Mallorca there kept resounding in my mind a refrain which was “And this is the way the world ends”—only it wasn’t—it doesn’t.

  Here’s a kiss for the middle of your mind—from mine.

  Love,

  Barbara

  P.S. Thank you, Sam, for all your encouragement—urgings—to take this flat. It will be a successful venture—I feel it!

  Letter from Antony Baekeland to Sam Green, May 15, 1970

  Miramar

  Valldemosa

  Mallorca

  Dear Sam—

  Happy birthday—Mummy wrote me you had one around this time. It’s beautiful here but we are having a bit of trouble with a whole chain of furious masons who have not been paid by the horse person who claims not to have been paid by Mummy who has paid him she says.

  The other day when I was fishing I had a look for some earrings Mummy tossed away when she was at the next farm. I couldn’t find them as I had really no idea of where she was sitting—“under some tree,” she said. So I’ve asked her to send me a map because it’s a shame to lose the beautiful ones you gave her.

  Told Maria I’m writing you and she sends salutations. I’m working quite hard on some clay I got in Palma and making small animals and things.

  Love,

  9 Tony

  Letter from Barbara Baekeland to Sam Green, June 20, 1970

  Miramar

  Valldemosa

  Mallorca

  Darling Sam—

  Could I ask you to do me two favors. I was told about a Pekingese lady by Mrs. Turner, the service tenant at 81 Cadogan Square. I called her and she has a little red bitch that I dearly want. If you could have a look at the parents to estimate size & quality I’d be “ever so grateful” (Eliza speaking!). She will bring the merchandise to you—just call.

  Also, Tony has a hankering to give some Scottish bagpipes to a Spanish friend. It seems they used to play them around here. They can be found at a shop at 14A Clifford St.

  Love—

  Barbara

  P.S. Baborca the Arab stallion is for sale and I long to buy him, but when I finished doing the flat in London I had only $229.00 to last me until July 1st—just under the wire! But I will only owe one more $1,000 on the flat and will be able to pay back Muriel Murphy and my mother in September—Emily Staempfli next, and then Ethel! How large is your begging bowl?

  Letter from Sam Green to Barbara Baekeland, June 25, 1970

  c/o Cecil Beaton

  Salisbury

  England

  Dear Barbara,

  Talk about bliss! Getting out of N.Y. has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’ll find me a new and charminger person. You may find that as early as a week from now.

  I arrived on Sunday to find Cecil in the hospital. So I had several days to fill up on my own.

  I’ll be arriving at Palma on Fri. or Saturday. I’m looking forward to seeing you and Tony and Miramar. I will be there with a bagpipe but not with a Peke. You’ll have to get your own horrid defective thing. Besides, I know nothing about dogs and would botch the job.

  Love,

  Sam

  Letter from Barbara Baekeland to Sam Green, July 28, 1970

  Miramar

  Valldemosa

  Mallorca

  Dear Sam—

  I’m sorry we missed each other and couldn’t say goodbye. Ethel, who had been having a rather miserable time (all my fault), wanted to see the convent and I simply couldn’t say no. It was interesting and I lost track of time. Anyway I didn’t think you would leave for another few days and can’t imagine how I could have not seen you between the house and the beach. Anyway in going to the beach we did see Tony but didn’t stop. He appeared to have had an accident and was trying to straighten out a dented fender but the car belongs to Hugo Money-Coutts and not only does Tony not have permission to use it but he has no license. If he should have another accident I’m afraid it would be hell on him. He might be locked up for years. If you have any influence with him you might point out to him the danger of using other people’s property without proper sanction and of breaking laws!

  He has been asked to appear before a tribunal on August 22—on a contraband charge. I am hoping Hugo will be here—or Tony’s father—but I think Hugo would be better. Then I pray Tony will get away from here. I am very worried about him and wish you could come back for just a few days so I could talk with you about him.

  I regret having dragged you into all of this—or was it the other way around? Anyway you have all my love for whatever it’s worth. It seems to pull disorder, tears, and early sorrow in its wake. Sometimes I feel that I relinquish my better judgment to fate—or God or something. Anyway I don’t seem to be in control and maybe that’s for the best. I still can’t find my green earrings which you asked me not to lose and this upsets me almost more than anything—I’ve looked everywhere. They are either at the farm next door or in an olive grove. Dear Sam, we have had such a strange and lovely time.

  Barbara

  P.S. Tony gave away his microscope and typewriter! And what happened to all his money? He must have given it away, too. And should he be encouraged in this? I know he is an adult but I can’t keep bailing him out as I simply haven’t got the wherewithal to do so—the boy he gave it to can’t even type!

  Alastair Reid

  In the summer of 1970 I ran into Barbara in the main street in Palma. I was living way up in the mountains, in a village called Galilea. I hadn’t seen her since 1962 when she’d hailed me in the street in Málaga—she and Brooks and Tony were visiting Ethel de Croisset at her place there—and that was the last time I ever saw them en famille. The next thing is that I heard from Ethel’s mother, Elsie Woodward, that Brooks and Barbara were breaking up. That day in Palma, Barbara told me the whole painful thing about Brooks dumping her. A few days later I went up to see her. Tony wasn’t there, but later on they both drove over to Galilea to visit me, we had lunch at the pension, and from that point on, Tony sent me poems that he’d written. What I used to do was very patiently point out to him technical things and give him books to read.

  But then suddenly he began to change and write prose—little pieces of prose about a page long. Some of them were really quite eerie, as though they were fragments of some enormous thing, but I couldn’t imagine what or where they were coming from, because his poems had been more or less bucolic and what you might expect as exercises, and suddenly I realized there was a very savage landscape inside Tony.

  I began to see him as rather cruelly victimized by circumstance, and I realized then that the Brooks/Barbara thing had left him…had just left him, abandoned him, stopped him.

  Of course, Barbara’s version of how things were was always very positive. She was a great, you know, smoother-over.

  That summer I got pulled back in. But it’s a couple of summers later when I saw that what I had thought was a merely understandably disturbed context was infinitely more than that—it was all coming apar
t then, it was all really unhinging itself. I mean, you were looking into something terrible.

  Letter from Barbara Baekeland to Sam Green, August 22, 1970

  Miramar

  Valldemosa

  Mallorca

  Dear Sam—

  Tony received a fine today of 120 pesetas and an admonition. I did not go to Palma with him but our horseman did. Brooks Baekeland never showed up—nor does he seem to be concerned about Tony’s troubles. Anyway I thought you might be.

  I am very tired, having in the last month risen at 5 A.M., fed & watered the horse, cleaned the stable, weeded the garden, watered the plants, fed the cat, cooked the breakfast, washed up, planned the meals, driven 20 miles to shop for food, driven back 20 miles to cook lunch, read poetry, listened to music, washed up, washed the kitchen

  floor, swept the house, cleaned the bathroom, made my bed, looked at the view, cut flowers, arranged same, wrote letters, paid bills, kept accounts, walked down 1,000 ft. to the sea & back for a quick swim, prepared cocktails, cooked dinner, dressed & looked beautiful for dinner, made conversation, been entertaining, left the dishes, and

  God alone knows what I did when I finally got to bed! Anyway I’m tired and am off (I hope next week) to Cadaqués for a few days and from there to Ethel’s in Málaga (while work here is in progress) for a rest.

  Hope you’re having a good time—Ethel says she heard it’s going to be a very boring cruise.

  This is my last letter to you!

  Love,

  Barbara

  Ethel Woodward de Croisset

  I had been to stay with her in this terrible house on the cliff the month before. I’d bumped into Mimi Cohane, Jack’s wife before Heather, in Cadaqués, and she said, “You must go to see Barbara in Mallorca.” Mimi, you see, had just been there, and she said that things were going very badly. She told me how she’d been walking around the property with Barbara and the first thing she saw in the garden was a chair, a broken chair, and she said, “What’s that chair doing in the flower beds?” And Barbara said, “Oh, pay no attention to it. Tony put it there.” Pay no attention! And then they did a tour of the house, and on the steps going down to the cellar there was a typewriter—smashed, absolutely mangled! And Mimi said, “My God, what’s that?” “Oh, pay no attention to it. Tony was upset about something and threw it down there.”

  So I went to see her, and when I arrived, Michael Alexander was also there and the table was set for this lovely evening on the terrace. But in the middle of dinner Barbara had a fit of madness over something and insulted us—I mean, like a madwoman! You know, some general insult: “You goddam fucking fools!” You know, what mad people say—I saw a person in the bus once screaming like that. Barbara went howling out into the garden, in the moonlight. And we tried to reason with her to come back in the house and go to sleep. I tried every way—even being very severe—you know, all the things you try. And after that, exhausted, I gave up, and she stayed out in the field. As I went off to sleep, I could hear Michael Alexander talking with Tony, who was terribly upset by all this, saying, you know, “Tony, don’t feel responsible.”

  The next morning I was cleaning up—there was a mess of dirty dishes, thirty, forty dishes—and Barbara came sashaying in and said, “You don’t have to do that.” And I decided not to speak to her—I was going to give her a little bit of my temper. So I kept a stony silence. She just ignored this sort of thing, you know—airily. I think I relented after some time. We never mentioned the drama of the night before. You know, you just never mentioned these terrible things.

  Letter from Barbara Baekeland to Sam Green, August 24, 1970

  Miramar

  Valldemosa

  Mallorca

  Sam—

  Tony says you told him I was the most impossible woman you’d ever met. I don’t think it’s correct to talk to a young man about his mother this way!

  Barbara

  11

  SNAPPING BACK

  IN 1979, TONY BAEKELAND was gradually taken off his medication until he reached a stage where he seemed to the authorities “quite rational, quite reasonable.” Dr. Maguire was still resistant to the idea of his being released without the assurance of regular follow-up care. When Tony himself learned what the costs involved might amount to—$50,000 and up per year for a private facility—he told Dr. Maguire, “No way—I don’t have it.”

  An officer from the American Embassy in London continued to monitor Tony. A State Department document concerning a visit on March 20 notes that “Baekeland appeared to be in good health and spirits.” Another document, dated June 8, states that “Baekeland says he has been told by his doctor that he can expect to be released in a few months.” But another document reporting on a visit five months later, on November 13, mentions that Tony Baekeland could count on being released only “sometime in the near future.”

  Postcard from Antony Baekeland to Sam Green, September 9, 1970

  Dear Sam—

  On the plane to Mallorca. Been visiting with my father who is now living in Brittany—a nice change. I miss you and think of you often. Perhaps we’ll see each other soon? Much love from your screwy friend.

  Tony

  P.S. How is my sainted mother?

  Letter from Barbara Baekeland to Sam Green, September 18, 1970

  France

  Transatlantique

  French Line

  Darling Sam—

  I’ve just had a fabulous morning, working from 6:00 to 1:15 finishing my novel and roaring with laughter—some of it’s very funny. You’d better check it out before I decide whether or not to publish it. There isn’t a word in it which isn’t true.

  This ship is first class. I’ve eaten $1,000 worth of caviar since I boarded and all the wine is free!

  Have spoken to no one except my muse—very funny fellow.

  Tonight will have cocktails with an old friend who is aboard—Valentina. Shall we speak about Garbo? And shall I drop your name?

  Having a lovely time refusing to be picked up. Am knocking them dead with my new clothes! I look great in them. Please charge some for yourself—pay later.

  Please drop Tony a line in Mallorca. He loves you and I know would be cheered to hear from you.

  My plans are, as usual, vague—dependent on the book, the divorce, the state of my finances, etc., etc. Wish I could have someone’s help with the latter. My income is quite handsome, as I pay no taxes, and will go up in April when the London flat is rented again. But no matter how much comes in, it all seems to go out. If I make money on the book I’ll be quite well off.

  You have already read the Spring and Winter sections but not Autumn and Summer. Summer is a kind of summation, and it is that section in which you play a role. I would like to know if you think the treatment is too candid and, if it were to be accepted by a publisher, if you would have any objections. I prefer not to disguise or change the names. I am, as you can understand, anxious to have your clearance, as once I am assured that neither Tony nor you have any objections to the frank treatment, I can go ahead with the necessary steps and submit the manuscript for publication.

  Meanwhile here it all is. Please let me know what you think. I can’t tell if the structure is sound and if the four sections belong organically together. Would appreciate any suggestions.

  Love,

  Barbara

  Letter from Sam Green to Barbara Baekeland, October 15, 1970

  Fire Island, New York

  Dear Barbara,

  I am sorry that it has taken me so long to write this letter. Of course you have my permission and best wishes in having the book published—if you can find a publisher, that is. I very much doubt that you will be able to, as—content aside—it is very unfinished. My impression is that it is not only a first draft but that you didn’t even reread it after it was typed—there were so many imperfections and redundancies on almost every page.

  As to the content: I cannot think why anyone would be interested in the self-indul
gent rampagings of a mad international wastrel. I am referring to the last portion of the book, you must realize, as the first segments are very lovely, interesting, beautifully written, and polished.

  There is such a deterioration in style between the first part and the last that it is difficult to believe the same person had a hand in both. While in the beginning the author has some objectivity, as well as considerable insight into the personalities and needs of the other characters, in the second there are nothing but obtuse value judgments: “she is a dear”—now that tells the reader a lot! These comments are about as deeply as you go into understanding anyone else.

  The principal theme seems to be the persecution of a woman by Spanish authorities because she, as a guest in their country, refuses to comply with the rules which govern their way of life. She rampages around Spain—and the rest of the world—demanding attention, or whatever else is her immediate need, from everyone she encounters. Not only does she demand SERVICE—but QUALITY service as well. And what does she give in return? Only money. Grudgingly, and not very much, at that.

  Perhaps if the heroine were a tiny bit servile herself—at least to the needs and concerns of those with whom she has some emotional or blood ties—it might occur to her that people are here to help each other instead of simply to make demands.

  Perhaps you should rewrite the book as a journal—for that’s exactly what it is, a jotting down of observations—without any descriptions (most of which are of concern only to you—in fact, the only concern you have for the reader is the odd “we shall see” interjected between the ramblings), and try to discover why your life in the last years has been so agonized. And if you feel that you are still right and everyone else is wrong, then continue on your way.

  This is a tough letter because you asked for my opinion and I’m giving it to you straight—without any indulging of your fantasies. I hope you know that I am concerned and that that is why I have made the effort.