The first four persons I greeted were Gloria Swanson, Ray Bolger, Gladys Swarthout, and Leslie Charteris, creator of “The Saint.” Then, over in a corner. I saw that face. Its attention was focused on George Schlee, husband of the noted dress designer Valentina. The face belonged to Garbo. I went over, and George introduced me. Garbo said, “I am sure we have met before.” (The voice has the quality of a muted cello.) I said that we had met in Hollywood some years ago
George is one of those men who should start a school. With one course: How to put human beings at their ease. With him it's a gift. He told Garbo about my FAMILY CIRCLE connection. When George said the word “reporter,” there was a strange flicker in Garbo's magnificent eyes, and she seemed to retreat two steps without moving. George quickly explained that this department is devoted to fairly factual material about persons fairly well known to the author, or some such kindly endorsement.
MISTRESS OF OPTICAL CHITCHAT
GARBO asked about my most recent visit to Hollywood. We discussed the present state of the industry.
Then I apparently said the right thing. It went like this:
“I was talking one day at lunch with Louis B. Mayer (vice-president in charge of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios), and he agreed that there was nothing wrong with the screen business that a few pictures like the ones Garbo used to make wouldn't cure.”
“And how was my name introduced into your talk?” asked Garbo. When she speaks, her eyes reflected her words. And when she's listening, they reflect her thoughts. That may be why nature provided her with her long, sweeping lashes. As protective covering. When she lowers those lashes, it's like dropping a curtain.
I said, “I had asked them to run ‘Ninotchka' for me.” This was the next-to-last film that Garbo made. It was released in 1939. Her eyes, in the space of a few seconds, asked three questions:
“Are you kidding?” with a flash of good-humored suspicion. Then “Well?,” and I'll swear they seemed to be–what's the word?—waiting, that's it. And when I didn't respond, her peepers asked, as plainly as if she'd spoken, “Why?”
So I said, “I wanted to see if ‘Ninotchka' was as good as I remembered it–if it held up. And I wanted to see if you had lost your spell.”
This time she responded vocally. “And was it?”
“It was good,” I said. “Bright, witty dialogue–solid entertainment. And you were–well, you were Garbo, and there's no one like you.”
“And never will be,” declared Mr. Schlee fervently. Then we settled down and told Garbo in a few thousand well chosen words how we have admired her contributions as a screen actress. She blushed with pleasure, looked thoroughly uncomfortable, and made small demurring sounds.
“You see how she is?” chided George. “She doesn't believe it. The world does not miss her. So she doesn't make any more movies.
“That's what happens to a woman when she makes a lot of money,” I said directly to George. “Now she's laded. So she's lazy.” A PEEK INTO GARBO'S PURSE
GARBO was wearing a gray tailored suit. For some reason the word “tailored” has always had the connotation in my middle-class mind of something strictly nonfeminine. So help me, this number that had been molded around Garbo's chassis was as feminine as Chaqueneau K. (And if you don't believe that's girlish, ask any man who buys this perfume. It was dreamed up by a lady pal of mine named Kay Chaqueneau and is sold only to men. Get the pitch? If a gal wants some–and they all do–she has to influence some guy into gifting her with the stuff. Result? Closer relations between the sexes. In other words, the man pays for a perfume for the girl to drive him nuts with–the dope.)
At the mention of money Garbo stuck a hand in one of the pockets in her skirt and turned it inside out. Empty. She turned the other out. Nothing. I pointed to the bag held under one arm. She handed it to me, and her eyes were grinning. “Go ahead,” she challenged. “Open it.”
I worked the snap and gazed into the reticule. “Help yourself,” she commanded. In the bag were a gold case, a compact, a key, two buttons, a swatch of material, and a small wallet. In the compact there were some fine white powder and a puff. In the case there were a vial of perfume, a lipstick, and a cigarette lighter. The perfume reminded me of flowers grown in the open–not in a hothouse. The scent had been custom-tailored for her and had no name. In the wallet were a five, three ones, and 64c in change.
“Loaded, am I?” Garbo arched a brow. “Probably the poorest woman in the room.”
“Gals never carry much loot on them,” I argued. “Look–I'll prove it.”
Miss Swarthout was standing nearby. I stepped up, tapped her on the arm, and said confidentially, “Gladys dear, have you any money with you?”
“Yes, I have,” she whispered back. “How much do you need?”
“How much have you got?”
“Oh, I could let you have $50. Maybe more.” She started to open her bag furtively.
I said, “No thanks. But you should be ashamed of yourself for making a liar of me.” Miss Swarthout's facial reaction was colourful. HUMOR IS THE CATALYST
WHEN I returned to my companions, Garbo and her eyes were waiting.
“She was going to look in her bag, but you walked away,” she prodded. “Did she have more than $8?”
“She wanted to lend me $50,” I lamented. “Why would she be toting around all that cash?”
Miss Garbo arched both eyebrows. “Haven't you heard the old adage? ‘There comes a time in every women's life when some man needs $50.'”
I gasped. Garbo dishing out a nifty. A gag from Garbo! George laughed and shook his head.
“Look,” He said. “The man is astonished. What do you think of this woman–that she has no sense of humor?”
That was exactly what I had thought, but expressed it a bit more diplomatically.
“You are partly responsible,” I told Garbo. “Consider the advertising of that film we mentioned, ‘Ninotchka.' Do you remember?”
Her eyes wandered back, located the memory, then shrank in distaste. “I will never forget it. But it was not my idea. Those billposters and theatre signs. They haunted me.”
Perhaps some of our readers will recall them. They read something like this: “'Ninotchka' … Garbo dances … Garbo loves … Garbo laughs!” As if the sight of Garbo laughing were a miracle.
This phase of the conversation presented a situation that George immediately seized upon. He asked me to tell Garbo a certain Hollywood story. It is a hunk of dialect humor that was taught me by the comedian Lou Holtz. On first meeting Garbo that afternoon, nothing could have been farther from my mind than telling her this story. Or any story. Of course, you've guessed the answer. Garbo not only has a delightful sense of humor, but is a perfect audience. To a guy who has, in his groping past, been a professional storyteller, she was a revelation. Listening with her is an art, and her laughter is a throaty musical sound that makes you feel it has been hanging around down near her heart, it comes up so warm and natural.
That did it, as it always does. No agent, in my opinion, is so effective a catalyst between casual acquaintances as humor. UNREHEARSED, UNAFFECTED, UNADORNED
FOR years you may have been hearing, as I have, that Garbo is difficult, hard to know. We've just proved she isn't, under the proper circumstances. But I admit that such propitious circumstances as at this meeting are pure luck. Garbo has a remoteness that is hard to describe–an aloofness without offense. It is not a characteristic that leads to change friendship. During our conversation I said that I thought she was congenitally shy.
“That is probably true,” Garbo admitted. “Surely it is not a quality that one would choose. There is no pleasure in being shy.”
As she said this. I was struck by her complete lack of sophistication in manner, in speech, in expression. Nothing about this woman seems rehearsed. In other words, she is not a natural exhibitionist. Because of this naturalness, she seems much younger than she is. And the closer you are to her, the more you are aware of this impression. And it is not restricted of the spirit. It is also a physical youthfulness.
As for her unembellished beauty, her determination to be herself may be regarded by many women as a pose. Because she uses almost no make-up. However, in her defense (if she needs any) I must say that she would be an idiot to try to improve on some of her God-given assets, as so many women do. The raw, unadorned outline of Garbo's face, especially in close-up, is something to make a sculptor drool. The broad forehead, the artistic arch of the brows, the fine, indescribably aristocratic nose, the sensitive, facile mouth–you take one quick glance and the impression remains in your mind as the Alpha and Omega of classical feminine perfection. As for Garbo's, you should pardon the expression, body–well, leave us get on to the second chorus of this hymn to a Swedish-American-type Juno. OBOLENSKY–PRINCE AND PATRIOT
SO if you will just step this way, we will join Colonel Serge Obolensky and his dinner party in the Carnaval Room of the Sherry-Netherland Hotel. First, a word about our host:
Serge has two tags, both legitimate. For years ha was called Prince Obolensky, having been born to one of Russia's oldest and best known titles. During the past war, at the age of 50, he enlisted in the New York National Guard as a private. Soon he was promoted to second lieutenant and then, after the guard was Federalized, he rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel. No, he didn't pilot a desk in the Pentagon. He joined the paratroopers, and on two occasions hit the silk behind enemy lines. His more important jump was in 1943 when, with three other men, he parachuted into Sardinia and established contact between Allied headquarters and the Italian troops. A short time ago Serge excused himself from his job as headman of the Sherry-Netherland and took a refresher course in the rugged art of modernized warfare. In my book, there's no finer gentleman or more honest patriot.
It was a party of six. In addition to Garbo, two other beautiful gals–Mrs. Stuyvesant (Molly) Pierrepont Jr. and Mrs. C. B. (Anita) Alexander Hr. Both are younger than Garbo. But when they arrived and were introduced, Garbo stood up to shake hands. It was a spontaneous courtesy characteristic of this woman–though I can't expect people to believe this who have gained their impressions of Garbo from reading the trash that has been written about her by reporters who have never met her.
Later both Molly and Anita commented on Garbo's gesture.
“It was so old-world and yet so honest,” said Molly, “that I darn near dropped a curtsy.”
To which Anita added, “I had heard so much about Garbo's not being friendly–about how difficult she is socially–that I was almost afraid to meet her. Then that greeting! And when I think of the shabby manners of some of the people I've heard criticize her …”
But a thing that impressed the girls just as much was Garbo's active interest in everything they had to say. If it's an act, she rates an Academy Award. LEANS FORWARD … SITS IN LAP;
TOUCHES YOU … YOU'RE COMPROMISED
A FEW days later I was talking to Mrs. Pierrepont, and we expressed our mutual reaction to Garbo's lack of gestures. She walks in an atmosphere of composure that surrounds her like a sanctuary to tranquillity, and serenity sits on her bro like “patience on a monument.” (“Twelfth Night,” in case you thought I made it up.) Consequently, every move she makes demands you attention. If she wiggles one pinkie, it is more expressive that if Milton Berle had screamed and done a pratfall. If while talking she inclines to degrees toward you, you feel that she's sitting in your lap. She reaches out, touches your arm lightly–and you feel you've been compromised. I'm kidding–but not much.
Her hands are large, strong, beautifully formed, and like every other feature of this rare creature, seem to have a separate life of their own.
Her gown was a severely plain black dinner dress. Her only jewelry, other than a small pin at her neck, was a diamond ring in an old-fashioned setting. AFRAID TO DANCE?
COLONEL OBOLENSKY and the writer have an avocation in common. We love to dance and do a great deal of it. He is conceded to be one of the top exponents, anywhere, of the true Viennese waltz. During the early part of the evening Serge mentioned our mutual addiction.
Garbo said, “What a pity that I don't dance.”
“Never?” said Serge.
“Not in 15 years, except in ‘Ninotchka,”' Garbo said. The tone held a touch of wistfulness.
A few minutes later the orchestra swung into a waltz. Before you could name the title of the song “Zwei Herzen in drei-viertel Takt,” Serge and Molly Pierrepont out there zipping and dipping. They made a striking team. I watched Garbo. She kept her eyes glued to the couple. Her head started swaying in tempo, then her body. She began to hum.
“Fifteen years,” I muttered. “And when I think of the way you have danced?”
“Where?” she asked.
“On the screen.”
“I thought you meant–like this.” She nodded toward the dance floor.
“And why not? You love rhythm. That's obvious. What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid?” she repeated with an odd inflection. “Do you really think that? I go to so few places where there is dancing. When I do,” she shrugged, “no one urges me. One loses confidence.”
Molly and Serge returned to the table. She was happy but gasping. Waltzing with Serge is no plodding formality. It's an exhilarating workout.
“Serge,” I said, nodding toward Garbo, “we have a frustrated hoofer here. She's been dancing every step of that waltz with her mind. For heaven's sake, get her body into the act.”
“But she said–“ Serge started. “You know–15 years–“
“That makes it a fixation,” insisted Molly. “And you're just the doctor to whirl it away. Go on, insist. Be firm!” SHE TAKES A CHANCE WITH A DANCE
SERGE took one of Garbo's arms; I had the other. She arose slowly. “Please now,” Serge murmured gently. “No scenes. Remember–it's my hotel.” The next thing Garbo knew, she was waltzing. At first she wore a frightened smile. Then she began to relax. In a few minutes everybody in the joint, including the other dancers, was watching them. The waltz ended. The orchestra went into a fox-trot rhythm. Serge brought Garbo back to the table. Before she could sit down, I grabbed her.
“You can't turn me down now,” I said. “Please. Just a few times around.”
“But this!” she backed away a step. “I don't do this–this modern dancing.”
“Just twice around,” I pleaded.”
“Just twice,” she agreed weakly, “but very simple–nothing fancy. I'm honestly afraid.”
And she was. She was as nervous as a country gal at her first hoedown.
I said, “Listen to my right hand on your hip. That's the hand that gives you the cue.” She nodded vigorously. “And take hold of my left hand firmly.”
She gave a quick snatch, and my finders made like sardines. She's really packed with power. Which brings us to the Garbo body:
From the shoulders to the waist her figure has the sloping grace of a fine athlete's. Everywhere I–shall we say–contacted her I was conscious of a vibrant strength. She's really in shape, as we say at the “Y,” and her hips are strictly G. W. S. (girlish without strangulation). If she wears a girdle, it's nothing more than a reinforced garter belt, or I'm losing my touch. THE LADY LINDIES AND LIKES IT
REMEMBER the way she moved on the screen? That's the way she dances. Extraordinary natural grace. After one lap around the floor, we were doing fast turns. A few minutes later I threw her a real curve–a broken reverse turn that Tony De Marco taught me several years ago. She made incoherent sounds of protest and giggled aloud. But she never missed a beat. We neared our table, I threw her out into a minor Lindy break, pulled her back, and sat her down. No need to press your luck. She was flushed; she started laughing; she rolled her eyes, wagged her head; she fished around for her handkerchief and mopped daintily at her pan.
Serge arose, came to her chair, and shook her hand warmly. “You were magnificent,” he declared. “May I invite you now to be my partner for the next Harvest Moon Ball competition?”
Garbo looked at him, then at me. “Was I all right, really?”
“You were perfect,” said Serge warmly. “You were–“ he made a sweeping gesture and let the sentence suspended.
“Go on,” said Molly. “Tell Miss Garbo what you actually said just now.”
Serge hesitated. “I said you were intelligently responsive.”
Of course, Colonel Obolensky had not only described the lady's dancing–he had described the lady. from: Family Circle July 1950
© Copyright by Family Circle
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