Susan Ronald - Condé Nast - The man and his empire

C ond Nast might have wondered why a publisher should feel like the ringmaster of a circus that would put Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Baileys to shame. True, he aimed to create the most excellent and stunning greatest show, albeit in the publishing world. Did that mean he was expected to tame and shackle his employees to prevent them from behaving like wild animals? He would have been discomfited by the image racing through his mind. He was a quiet, reflective sort of chap, never garrulous or given to outbursts of bad temper.

Though middle aged, the forty-six-year-old Nast was still deemed handsome, with his even features, slim physique, and perfect posture. Some thought he was a bit bankerish with his wire-rimmed pince-nez, slightly receding hairline, and immaculately tailored three-piece suits. He was noted for his measured, gentlemanly manner, his numeracy, and his careful management style. Those who didnt know him well thought he was standoffish. Others were floored by his incredible eye for detail. Above all, Cond was painfully shy and always mindful of his coveted place in New York high society. But a ringmaster? Never.

Of course he wanted the best in every fieldillustrators, photographers, designers, writers, editors, layout people, and even advertisers. How else could he craft the best publications? Why, even his dear friend and editor in chief at Vanity Fair, Frank Crowninshieldeveryones favorite raconteurwas guilty of high jinks, not to mention of poaching top talent from Conds cash cow, the highly successful Vogue.

As far back as the spring of 1915, Edna Woolman Chase, Conds editor in chief at Vogue, complained that Frank had his eye on a small dark-haired pixie, treacle-sweet of tongue but vinegar-witted who was working on captions and special features. One of her first pieces was about houses, Cond recalled, and was cleverly titled Interior Desecration. It made a fair few avant-garde interior designers turn away in shame. This woman was courageous, too. She even dared to become a lab rat for her feature article Life on a Permanent Wavewhen perms were still hazardous and took an entire day hooked up to heated electric rods after the hair was soaked in a reagent (usually cow urine and water or caustic soda) to show results. The pixies name was Dorothy Rothschild. Within the year she became Dorothy Parker.

Cond had to smile at the memory. Of course Dorothy was too witty to remain the writer of special features and punchy one-liners like From these foundations of the autumn wardrobe, one may learn that brevity is the soul of lingerie. At times she borrowed from nursery rhymes, as when she hoped to tweak the noses of Vogue readers: There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very very good, and when she was bad she wore this divine nightdress of rose-colored mousseline de soie, trimmed with frothy Valenciennes lace. The suggestion that Vogue readers might actually have sex was anathema to the Palm Beach and Newport sets, and the offending quip was deleted at the proof stage.

Although Vanity Fairs editor, Frank Crowninshield (called Crownie by his staff and close friends), was the quintessential Edwardian gentleman, he was the first to truly admire Dorothys way with words. So he duly poached the quiet, little, seemingly unassuming lass from Vogue. What else could he do? He adored her humor, and in 1915, together with George Shepard Chappell, the three of them wrote High Society: Advice as to Social Campaigning and Hints on the Management of Dowagers, Dinners, Debutantes, Dances and the Thousand and One Diversions of Persons of Quality. Their entertaining jests were illustrated by the pen-and-ink drawings of Anne Harriet Fish, the internationally famous artist for The Tatler and Vanity Fair in London. Born in Bristol, England, Fish, as she was known to every witty household, was adored on both sides of the Atlantic. Still, she wasnt the problem in managing his circus, Cond ruminated.

On her own perhaps Dorothy hadnt been at fault? Then Cond thought back to his private assistant, Albert Lee, and his daily, almost religious, tracking of the Allied forces in the Great War on a huge map of France taped to the office wall. Lee painstakingly set the battle lines, as reported daily in The New York Times, in colored pins back and forth across no-mans-land. (Just how he charted the infinitesimal movements by the yard, meter, or foot is anyones guess.) Being an inveterate biter of the hand that tossed her tasty morsels to write about, Dorothy taunted the poor man by dashing into Vogues offices early in the morning and devotedly rearranging Lees weary armies. While Lee eventually suspected that German spies had invaded Vogue, Frank pounced like any decent predator, and enticed Dorothy to soar under his wing, proclaiming, Her perceptions were so sure, her judgment so unerring, that she always seemed to hit the centre of the mark.

The fact was that Frank, too, adored practical jokes. An archplayer of many pranks, he had rather notoriouslyand repeatedlytied black thread to the legs of chairs in the guest bedrooms of country mansions where he was staying, then slipped the end of the thread out the bedroom door. When its occupant prepared for bed, the chairs would suddenly move, causing its mystified resident to either swear off alcohol or believe that the house was haunted.