In the Name of Gucci Read online

  Guccio, keen to do whatever he could to help, would have undoubtedly heard tales of riches to be made in the nation ruled over by Queen Victoria in fin de siècle Britain. It was the era known as the “gay” or “naughty nineties”—a period of frivolity, ostentation, and opulence enjoyed by the upper classes especially. Grand tours of Europe had become the fashion as wealthy Americans and those in the colonies, eager to spend the millions they’d made from diamonds, railroads, industry, or gold, flocked to London before embarking on extravagant travels around the Continent.

  My grandfather died ten years before I was born, so I was never able to ask him who suggested he seek employment at the capital’s premiere deluxe hotel. The Savoy archives reveal that there were several Italians already on the staff and that young olive-skinned boys with cherubic faces were much sought-after as pages. Their starched white gloves, jaunty caps, and smart livery would have been a reassuring sight for the cream of society, who were falling for the novel concept of staying somewhere that offered impeccable service along with newfangled electricity and hot and cold running water in en suite bathrooms. Booking rooms was far preferable to maintaining drafty gas-lit private townhouses with few such luxuries. It even had its own elevators, known as “ascending rooms,” which offered two speeds so as not to cause ladies to faint.

  The etiquette of travel in the 1890s dictated that guests alight from their horse-drawn carriages and be whisked to reception on the first floor riverside. Their footmen remained in the courtyard to advise the pages which luggage belonged to whom. These beautiful hand-tooled bags, often embossed with initials and family crests, would have been made by a handful of leather goods manufacturers in Europe, most notably perhaps Louis Vuitton of Paris, H. J. Cave & Sons of London, and Asprey of New Bond Street, whose dressing cases, trunks, and traveling bags are still licensed under royal warrant.

  Although he would have spoken little English when he arrived, young Guccio was employed as a page for the entire four years that he worked at the Savoy. My grandfather’s primary role then would have been to carry those towering stacks of bags from the inner courtyard—in those days accessed via large gates with granite pillars on Savoy Hill—up to the opulent River Suites via stairs or a service elevator. There, he would have been expected to help separate and sort the luggage before leaving it for maids and valets to unpack. It was a job for which servility, stamina, and sign language were all that was required.

  To be a page was a lowly job, paying less than two shillings and sixpence a week plus bed and board (approximately $2), but a half-sovereign tip ($5) from a generous guest could transform a lad’s fortunes.

  After his relatively parochial childhood, my grandfather must have been amazed to find himself in the first hotel of its kind in London, an establishment that had its glitzy champagne opening in 1889. A place I’ve always had a special affection for, the Savoy is still considered one of the grandest establishments in London. It is easy to imagine how refreshingly stylish it must have been for its day.

  The Berkeley, Carlton, and Ritz hotels weren’t even built yet and Claridge’s—owned by the Savoy’s proprietor, the theatrical impresario Richard D’Oyly Carte—was more akin to a comfortable club for the gentry. With César Ritz as general manager and the first celebrity cook, Auguste Escoffier, as maître chef, the Savoy promoted the groundbreaking idea that a hotel was a decent place for the aristocracy—even royalty—to be seen. It became a destination venue and not somewhere people simply slept. The likes of Noël Coward and George Gershwin entertained clientele that comprised the new “international set,” including show business stars such as Sarah Bernhardt, Dame Nellie Melba, and Lillie Langtry, all of whom had special dishes created for them there.

  I often wonder if my grandfather ever met any of these stars. Did Noël Coward throw him a coin? Was Lillie Langtry sweet to him? Whether he encountered them or not, I’m sure he would have been staggered to think that had they lived beyond their time, his surname would have become known to them all.

  The hotel’s River Restaurant, which I know so well, was one of the first places where it became acceptable for ladies to dine out in public. This, in turn, led to a growing interest in fashion and emerging new trends. All of which meant even more hatboxes, valises, Gladstone bags, and parasol cases for fresh-faced young pages like my grandfather to carry.

  By 1901, however, the mood in Britain had changed. On January 22, Queen Victoria died after an almost sixty-four-year reign, sending her people spiraling into shock. The Anglo-Boer War had created further uncertainty and political upheaval, and the Gilded Age no longer seemed quite so golden. It was in this year that the twenty-year-old Guccio decided to turn his back on the city he had come to love and head home to Florence with the half sovereigns he’d carefully saved.

  Back in the bosom of his family, he set about looking for a new job but first found himself a wife, a charismatic single mother named Aida Calvelli who worked as a seamstress and whose father was a local tailor. Guccio also adopted Aida’s illegitimate child, Ugo, whose father had died before he could marry her. That must have been quite a scandal at the time but Guccio broke with convention by making her his wife and taking on her son. He never fully accepted Ugo as his own, however, and they eventually became estranged.

  Within a few years, Guccio and Aida had a daughter, my aunt Grimalda, and four sons, including my father, Aldo, who was born on May 26, 1905. One boy later died in childhood, leaving three brothers whose destinies would become inextricably entwined with mine.

  With a reference from the Savoy, my grandfather soon found work at the Belgian-owned Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, which operated Europe’s most luxurious steam trains, including the Blue Train and the Orient Express. But his hopes of forging a career there were cut short by his conscription into national service. He was thirty-four when Italy entered the First World War in 1915 and he was ordered to report as a driver to the army’s transport unit.

  All that I have ever known about his time during the brutal trench warfare in the mountains between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire is that he somehow emerged from it unscathed, when more than seven hundred thousand died. After the war he found employment at Franzi, the Milan leather goods manufacturer founded in 1864 by Rocco Franzi and his son Felice, which had cornered the Italian luggage market for sophisticated European travelers. Their stylish trunks and eponymous suitcase made of “Franzi leather” infused with exotic essences had become ubiquitous on almost every transatlantic steamer and first-class train, and would have been a frequent sight at the Savoy. Whether this was a deliberate career move on my grandfather’s part or just a chance job offer, history doesn’t record.

  Within a short time of working there, however, he became quite convinced that there was a future for him in luxury leather goods. Having started as an apprentice learning how to select and treat hides in order to create high-end, durable but supple products, he ended up managing Franzi’s Rome tannery. He commuted to the Italian capital to begin with after my grandmother stubbornly refused to uproot her young family and leave her native Florence. In time, the formidable powerhouse that was Aida persuaded her husband to take probably the biggest risk of his life—hand in his notice, return to their home in the Oltrarno district south of the river Arno, and set up his own business.

  My grandparents bought a small shop in a cobblestoned street north of the river and not far from the chic fashion and café district dominated by Via de’ Tornabuoni. The new premises were cleverly sited within walking distance of the famous Ponte Vecchio, which virtually every visitor to Florence feels compelled to cross. Early reports suggest the modest shop was crammed from floor to ceiling with suitcases, handbags, briefcases, and trunks of every description. It also had its own workshop that Guccio filled with leather from Germany, acquired wholesale at a very affordable price thanks to the favorable postwar exchange rate.

  A man of impeccable taste, my grandfather hoped to create the kind of superior leathe
r goods he’d been handling since he was a boy, only using cheaper hides enhanced by skilled dyeing and treating techniques. His own elegant designs based loosely on English tailoring and style were pieced together by Florentine craftsmen with their eye for detail. Each new item carried the first Gucci monogram—a tiny image of a young page in full livery and a cap carrying a suitcase in one hand and a Gladstone bag in the other. It was my grandfather’s quiet nod to his formative days.

  Guccio Gucci opened for business at 7 Via della Vigna Nuova in 1921. The name of the street translates to “new vineyard,” and he surely hoped for a vintage beginning. The silvered name “G. GUCCI & Co.” was set in black marble above an Art Deco door. I have been there many times—it now forms part of the bigger Gucci premises whose main entrance is on Via de’ Tornabuoni—but it isn’t hard to imagine what it looked like almost one hundred years ago.

  An early advertisement in the Florentine newspaper Sassaiola Fiorentina described the store’s specialty as valigeria Inglese (English travel cases). It also offered articoli finissimi per regali (fine articles for gifts). My grandfather was named as the direttore comproprietario (copartner, shared with an unnamed business investor), “previously employed at leather manufacturer Franzi.” The forty-year-old father of three who’d merely carried such bags as a boy must have been nervous but proud as he stood behind the glass-topped counter with his waxed mustache waiting for his first customer.

  Cleverly, he focused on durability and was said to have jumped up and down on his suitcases to demonstrate how sturdy they were. Quality was paramount and he knew word of mouth would sell his wares. Business was slow at first but his newspaper advertisements soon brought people in, along with the recommendations from satisfied customers, just as he’d dreamed. In time, he also undertook repairs on luggage damaged during arduous journeys by road, sea, or rail—a problem he knew only too well from his days as a page. Fixing broken straps and polishing out ugly scratches became such a profitable sideline that my grandfather, with his growing appetite for commercial success, was able to open a new workshop.

  My father, Aldo, was fourteen the year the family business began—not much younger than his own father had been when he’d stoked coal to earn his passage to England. Although Papà studied botany at college later (sparking a lifelong passion for gardening), any thoughts of higher education were largely forgotten as he and his younger brother—my uncle Vasco—were set to work as delivery boys on bicycles after school and on weekends. Their little brother, Rodolfo, aged nine, was too young to do deliveries, and, besides, he had other dreams.

  My aunt Grimalda, their eighteen-year-old sister, operated the cash register along with Grandmother Aida, a veritable force in the business. Dressed in her starched white pinafore, she ruled the impeccably outfitted staff with exacting standards, just as she ran the household. Papà adored her although he did admit she could be “diabolic” and described her as a woman without fear. She certainly took no prisoners and believed she could do anything—just like he did.

  Her husband was an honest man with many good qualities but also frequently uncompromising and occasionally tyrannical. With a short temper and little patience, he was a perfectionist—a trait he passed down to my father and then to me. From household chores to personal grooming, he expected excellence. Puffing on a fat Toscano cigar, he was a “front of house” proprietor in the old-fashioned sense, checking that everything was immaculate before the doors were unlocked promptly on the stroke of his gold fob watch. Once they were open for business, he would wait on the shop floor in his dapper three-piece suit, ready to turn on the charm.

  He was determined to make his company at least as successful as Franzi and—as with that firm—fully expected his sons to be as devoted to it as he was. Family and commitment to the business came first, he always insisted. Often pitting one son against the other, Guccio also instilled an early sense of competition in his boys. My aunt Grimalda was expected to pitch in too, but being a woman, she was never part of his business plan.

  Regardless of their gender, my grandfather insisted that all his children maintain the unimpeachable manners, appearance, and behavior of those working for a high-end, high-achieving firm. He fully embraced the age-old Italian tradition known as bella figura, which refers to the way people present themselves to the world with fine clothes, grace, and gentility to make the best possible impression.

  Papà didn’t disappoint. With his fine-boned features, and as the only child with piercing blue eyes, the family’s eldest son was without doubt numero uno. A born wheeler-dealer who’d inherited his mother’s guile and his father’s entrepreneurial spirit, he was an eager apprentice and stepped up to the challenge of building the family business. Nimble and an early riser, he was usually first out of the door to deliver beautifully wrapped leather goods to customers all over Florence by bicycle, often braving the elements on narrow streets teeming with horse carriages.

  By the time he was twenty and working full-time, my father had learned to mimic my grandfather’s fastidiousness, carefully examining the window displays and checking each stitch of every item the company made. Both men insisted that the sales staff spend long hours on the shop floor in order to keep in touch with their customers and ensure that the store bearing their name was a gleaming testament to quality and excellence. Behind the scenes, though, things weren’t quite so prosperous. Business was patchy to begin with and at one point my grandfather almost had to close shop. He was only saved by a loan offered by the fiancé of my aunt Grimalda. The advance saved the company until trade picked up again, allowing my grandfather to not only pay off his debt but open a second store nearby on Via del Parione.

  Before long Papà proved adept enough to be sent out into the field as Gucci’s first-ever salesman, a job that appealed to his innate wanderlust and roving eye. Carrying suitcases full of merchandise, he’d boldly fill luggage racks on the train carriage, leaving little room for anyone else. With what some described as faccia tosta (chutzpah), he had an innate arrogance about him but was somehow allowed to get away with it. A handsome young bachelor of means, he quickly discovered the unexpected advantages of daily contact with fellow shopkeepers, foreign visitors, wealthy customers, and their staff, especially if they happened to be female.

  He traveled widely, but it was in Florence that he was to meet the first woman to make a profound impact on his life.

  When I look at the photograph of my father and his wife taken on their wedding day, I am surprised to see an apprehensive young man. His clenched fists and uncertain expression reveal the burden of responsibility he must have felt at just twenty-two years of age. Interestingly, I can also see myself in him—the shape of his nose, his sloping eyes and elongated face.

  His bride, on the other hand, seems far more at ease, with her head tilted toward her husband ever so slightly and her mouth open, almost as if she is about to say something. She has an air of expectation about her, not only because she was pregnant at the time but because of the future that lay ahead.

  Olwen Price was a comely strawberry-blond teenager who hailed from Shropshire in the English Midlands, close to the Welsh border. Her Protestant family worked in wood, making furniture, wheels, and coffins. The eldest of six children, she’d trained as a dressmaker but somehow escaped a life of provincial drudgery to go into service as a teenager and become a lady’s maid.

  One of Olwen’s duties while working for a Romanian princess named Elisabeth, who’d married King George II of Greece, was to collect items for her employer from the exclusive retail establishments she liked to frequent. The little shop of G. Gucci & Co. in Via della Vigna Nuova, Florence, was one of her many stops and the place Olwen first fell under my father’s spell.

  In the spring of 1927, Princess Elisabeth paid the store an unexpected visit—alone. The arrival of a European royal was always a cause for celebration (a bell used to be rung for such appearances at the Savoy), but there was little joyful clamor this time. The princess hadn�
��t come to buy; she had come to lodge a complaint. Miss Price, her unmarried employee, for whom she bore some level of responsibility, had been secretly having an affair with my father, she told my grandfather curtly. Worse still, Olwen was pregnant with his child.

  Guccio was mortified. He knew that his hot-blooded son was incapable of controlling his desires and could seduce virtually any woman within range. His increasingly feckless encounters were becoming the stuff of legend in the workshop and included a claim that he once locked eyes with a nun on a train who allowed him to caress her. Nobody was out of bounds, but getting a girl into trouble was a step too far.

  My father must have felt like he could go anywhere or do anything at the time when he discovered that Olwen was pregnant, but his father’s lessons about respect for family had made an impression. He also had genuine affection for the pretty young maid as well as a lifelong fascination for all things British, also instilled in him by my grandfather. Without fully considering the consequences, Papà offered to marry the nineteen-year-old and provide for their unborn child.

  It was an offer the princess found acceptable, so when Olwen was three months pregnant and not yet showing, she married my father at Our Lady and St. Oswald’s Catholic Church, not far from her home in Oswestry, England. The date was August 22, 1927. Olwen, who was much shorter than my father, wore a knee-length white dress, a short veil, and a crescent-shaped headdress studded with pearls. A large bouquet of flowers was gripped firmly in front of her bump. Some might say her expression is one of triumph.