turned fashion completely aroundwith the simplicity of her shepherdess period at the Petit Trianon, inventing the minimalist white muslin dress worn without a corset—which became all the rage, just like Coco Chanel’s famous little black dress did.”
“Have you read Antonia Fraser’s book?” Laszlo asked.
“No, but I did see the Coppola girl’s movie.”
“Oh, a disaster!” he replied.
“I thought it rather pretty, with all those candy colors,” I said.
“So did I,” Gay chimed in. “Everyone jumped on her. But the film wasn’t pretending to be historically accurate. And it was full of familiar faces.”
“Such as?” Laszlo prompted.
“Natasha Fraser, Antonia’s daughter; Hamish Bowles, a
Vogue
editor; the socialite Pierre Ceyleron …”
“I’m sure they’re all wonderful people, but they proved unable to save that insipid excuse for a movie. Besides,” Laszlo concluded, “I don’t think anything can top the biography by Stefan Zweig.”
Gérard began to serve the main course, sea bass grilled over fennel, and I still hadn’t exchanged a single word with Jean-Michel. Since my decision not to let that bother me, however, I had made some progress on this question. And I had understood, after trying to put myself in his place, that he was able to chat with Laszlo or my father becausehe felt all of them were on the same ladder of financial and professional success, albeit at different levels. He could not, however, carry off a casual conversation or exchange with me or my sister because he was lost and had no frame of reference in our house. Wasn’t that why he’d insisted on bringing along his car and driver? To carry with him a bit of his world and a token of his success, to help him confront “the upper crust” of which Marie and I, with our pedigrees, were the incarnation? Because with us he must have felt lacking in something essential, an ease and elegance of being that requires generations to breed true.
And he was doubtless right. Not everyone has enough brio to show, as Laszlo did, that one can be a little Hungarian Jew from the gutter—as he described himself—and dazzle the most snobbish and intolerant people. Jean-Michel’s manners, for one thing, distressed me in spite of myself: his way of saying
bon appétit
; his elbows on the table; his knife and fork laid obliquely on either side of his plate, like the idle oars of a drifting boat. I could tell myself all I wanted that this wouldn’t have irritated me had I found him attractive, but I wasn’t sure it was true. Because I was conditioned by my upbringing, even though I found such conventions absurd. (As a proper Englishwoman, for example, Nanny had set our table with glasses to the right of the plate, forks placed tines up, knives withthe cutting edge facing right, and she had constantly reminded us,
Hands under the table!
Then my mother would visit us. Shifting the glasses to a position above the plate, turning the forks tines down, and the knives, cutting edge left, she would order us to keep our
Hands on the table!
)
In any case, given the simpleton sitting next to me, what did it matter? I was hardly likely to experience a soul-wrenching conflict between any personal attraction to him and the repulsion I felt for his disappointing behavior. And I had decided not to take offense at his silence, which was a small thing, after all, to one as experienced as I in making conversation and coping with the vicissitudes of formal dinners, where I had once actually seen a dinner companion fall asleep and another choke to death.
I learned the art of conversation at an early age. Mother would invite my sister and me to eat with her from time to time, for fun, as she said, although she actually had no idea what that word meant. The upshot is, now I feel capable of getting anyone at all to talk.
I have a few simple precepts. I talk about what interests the other person. And since people like to talk about themselves, I ask
“Have you read Antonia Fraser’s book?” Laszlo asked.
“No, but I did see the Coppola girl’s movie.”
“Oh, a disaster!” he replied.
“I thought it rather pretty, with all those candy colors,” I said.
“So did I,” Gay chimed in. “Everyone jumped on her. But the film wasn’t pretending to be historically accurate. And it was full of familiar faces.”
“Such as?” Laszlo prompted.
“Natasha Fraser, Antonia’s daughter; Hamish Bowles, a
Vogue
editor; the socialite Pierre Ceyleron …”
“I’m sure they’re all wonderful people, but they proved unable to save that insipid excuse for a movie. Besides,” Laszlo concluded, “I don’t think anything can top the biography by Stefan Zweig.”
Gérard began to serve the main course, sea bass grilled over fennel, and I still hadn’t exchanged a single word with Jean-Michel. Since my decision not to let that bother me, however, I had made some progress on this question. And I had understood, after trying to put myself in his place, that he was able to chat with Laszlo or my father becausehe felt all of them were on the same ladder of financial and professional success, albeit at different levels. He could not, however, carry off a casual conversation or exchange with me or my sister because he was lost and had no frame of reference in our house. Wasn’t that why he’d insisted on bringing along his car and driver? To carry with him a bit of his world and a token of his success, to help him confront “the upper crust” of which Marie and I, with our pedigrees, were the incarnation? Because with us he must have felt lacking in something essential, an ease and elegance of being that requires generations to breed true.
And he was doubtless right. Not everyone has enough brio to show, as Laszlo did, that one can be a little Hungarian Jew from the gutter—as he described himself—and dazzle the most snobbish and intolerant people. Jean-Michel’s manners, for one thing, distressed me in spite of myself: his way of saying
bon appétit
; his elbows on the table; his knife and fork laid obliquely on either side of his plate, like the idle oars of a drifting boat. I could tell myself all I wanted that this wouldn’t have irritated me had I found him attractive, but I wasn’t sure it was true. Because I was conditioned by my upbringing, even though I found such conventions absurd. (As a proper Englishwoman, for example, Nanny had set our table with glasses to the right of the plate, forks placed tines up, knives withthe cutting edge facing right, and she had constantly reminded us,
Hands under the table!
Then my mother would visit us. Shifting the glasses to a position above the plate, turning the forks tines down, and the knives, cutting edge left, she would order us to keep our
Hands on the table!
)
In any case, given the simpleton sitting next to me, what did it matter? I was hardly likely to experience a soul-wrenching conflict between any personal attraction to him and the repulsion I felt for his disappointing behavior. And I had decided not to take offense at his silence, which was a small thing, after all, to one as experienced as I in making conversation and coping with the vicissitudes of formal dinners, where I had once actually seen a dinner companion fall asleep and another choke to death.
I learned the art of conversation at an early age. Mother would invite my sister and me to eat with her from time to time, for fun, as she said, although she actually had no idea what that word meant. The upshot is, now I feel capable of getting anyone at all to talk.
I have a few simple precepts. I talk about what interests the other person. And since people like to talk about themselves, I ask
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