| August 1990 |
I met Greta Garbo in 1947 at the house of John Gunther, to whom I was married a few months later. For me it was an amazing experience which I shall never forget. I thought it an unexpected bonus of life to be able to see at close range a person I so much admired. She was then, and is to me now, someone who had given a superior dimension to moving pictures, when they were still, artistically, secondary to the theatre.
She was the one actress who, above all others, seemed to me, and indeed to millions of people, to be the personification of romanticism and mysterious fascination. I came into John's apartment, and there she was. Wonderfully beautiful, but she surprised me by being perfectly simple, without the slightest pretension, affectation, or theatricality.
There was a strange melancholy in her |
Here was a human being, direct, gracious, and unforbidding. I felt shy in her presence, and said not a word, dazzled in observation. A collection of circumstances made us meet many times again, and two years later, John and I, Miss G., George Schlee, and his wife Valentina also, became friends.
We saw each other often and knew each other very well indeed. In the early 1960s George Schlee died, and John died in 1970. G.G. and I, alone then, never lost affection and concern each for the other.How can I describe her? She was certainly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, or even imagined. Her features were perfect, but the wonder of her beauty came from something within. There was a strange melancholy in her, which led one to believe that her marvelous face revealed the secrets of life – both the sorrows and joys. What was she like? She was Scandinavian, quite matter of fact, brave, accepting of disaster. Yet, on the other hand, she was a philosophic poet. I see her understanding of life and the world on two levels.
It was her nature to be private |
Again, how can I describe her? She was elusive, oblique. She did not talk about her relationships – the important things that happened to her. She was totally secretive. She did not lie ever but would evade a direct question. Part of that can be explained by the fact that she was mercilessly pursued by the press and public. From the age of eighteen, everything she did or said eventually reached the newspapers or magazines, often in a distorted form. This naturally made her mistrustful of confidences, but I don't think it was the real reason for her secrecy.
It was her nature to be private. So profound was her sense of privacy that it went both ways. By that I mean that she was the most trustworthy person in the whole world. One could have told her anything and know absolutely that it would never, ever be revealed. I have not known anyone else who could be trusted to that degree. What a fascinating creature, many faceted. Profundity and mystery were almost contradicted by her gaiety, her delicious sense of humor, her sense of the ridiculous.
She was never impolite or arrogant |
She was responsive and funny, mocking and full of wit and jokes. A clown like, childish delight in all sorts of things quite belies her public image, but it was a huge part of her. She was compassionate about people who were ill to an unusual degree. She was never impolite or arrogant to anyone in my whole experience of her.She hated violence. She was absolutely modest about her fame. Her artistic integrity and her aesthetic sense was always, right or wrong, very certain and clear. She liked paintings. She loved to be outdoors.
What I miss personally, of course, is not the public figure, but a friend I loved and do not wish to be without, the person I want to speak to on the telephone about something as insignificant as the seagulls on my raft in Vermont. In the last years we used to talk about nothing in particular several times a week. I suppose that is what friendship is about, and G.G. was that sort of friend. Once she told me that some people on a plane had said on landing, "When we saw that you were a passenger, we knew we would be safe." "Can you imagine that?" G.G. said. Well, yes, I can imagine that. Another time in Paris, a young journalist came to see John in our room at the Hotel Parc Monceau.
She was extraordinary |
G.G. happened to be there and we introduced her, as was the custom, as Miss Brown. He didn't recognize her, but the next day he asked John, "Who was that woman with you last night? It is someone I would like to know about. I thought about her after I went home." What caused this power? I don't really know, but it was not beauty or fame. There was some magic quality which one rarely encounters in anyone in an entire lifetime. She was extraordinary.
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