The Happy Years (1944-48)

by Cecil Beaton

  This was a group of avant-garde intellectuals who had come to hear a young Italian with long black hair read one of his short stories. To begin with, the Italian protested that he had a headache, had been ill all day, and didn’t really want to read his story because he didn’t like it or think it good. However, as everyone had come to hear him he would not disappoint them, and he would welcome criticisms afterwards. He spoke without any shyness or self-consciousness.

  The short story was about a long-haired Italian being offered by a series of would-be-helpful friends a succession of most unsuitable jobs. Naturally he turned each one down. But, after a while, the self-satisfied hero became so antipathetic that, contrary to the author’s intention, one felt more sympathy for the friends who were being made fools of for trying to help him. One would have liked the story to have ended with the ‘hero’s’ being drafted into the army, made to accept rigorous discipline, or in some way forbidden to seek his own destruction.

  When, at last, the reading was over the author was given a gruelling by the entire room. He was spared nothing: people were plain damn offensive to him. I had to admire his pluck in standing up against so many devastating onslaughts. Eventually everyone, including its creator, agreed that the story was of no interest whatsoever. Then everyone left — without even a ‘thank you’. All very collegiate and casual.

  I remained while Chuck gave his verdict: the evening had been a failure. But he did not apologize; failure was just something that happened every once and again — it was a natural phenomenon. In professional life too many people, especially in New York, are afraid of failure. But failure can sometimes teach one more than success — it is not something to be ignored. Too much emphasis is put on success.

  I admitted to Chuck that often I felt embarrassed by failure. I told him of a calamitous evening I had spent recently with a married couple who fought all during dinner in front of their ‘glamorous debutante’ daughter. The girl was so upset at my being present that she started picking off her red enamel nail-varnish at the table. I, too, was chagrined. ‘Wouldn’t I have preferred a quiet, uneventful, agreeable evening?’ I asked Chuck.

  ‘Oh, but why? It was so much more exciting! Think how much less interesting an easy, convivial evening would have been; you’d have forgotten all about it by the time you got home. But you’ll never forget that evening, will you?’

  On my way back to my ‘luxury hotel’ I realized that, in spite of everything, this too had not been just another evening to forget. But I had not completely decided in my own mind whether or not Connolly’s phrase had been discounted or strengthened in this instance.

  JOHN JACOB ASTOR

  The Museum of Modern Art must raise more funds. Alice Astor, a great lover of the arts and a most generous friend, arranges for a meeting between her step-brother, John Jacob Astor, and Monroe Wheeler, the Museum’s curator. John Jacob possesses millions of dollars. He is inveigled to the Museum. He does not appear to see anything: he does not appreciate most modern paintings: conversation is extremely hard to sustain and time goes slowly for all John Jacob remains — exhausting the various members of the Museum staff who are told to entertain him in relays.

  At last John Jacob sees a painting that galvanizes him to life: ‘That’s a Hopper, isn’t it!’ He explains that he too possesses a Hopper. ‘It’s a railroad scene.’ John Jacob knows all about railroads. ‘Oh, Hopper’s fine! But mine is a better Hopper than this!’ ‘Have you seen the Hopper show on now?’ asks Monroe. ‘No. There’s a whole show of Hopper, is there? Oh, I’d like to see that! And I’d like to meet Hopper, and tell him how much I like my Hopper, and find out if my Hopper’s as much a favourite of his as it is of mine.’ At last John Jacob had thawed. ‘It’s nice to meet the people whose work you admire,’ he said. ‘Now, for instance, I’ve always admired Bing Crosby, and I once had occasion to meet him, and I said: “Now Mr Crosby, which of the songs you sing is your favourite?” He looked blank for a minute, and then I said to him: “Mine is ‘Love In Bloom’,” then Bing Crosby said: “That’s strange — that’s my favourite also.”

  ‘Well,’ said Monroe, ‘we’ll arrange for Hopper to come to his show any day you can make it. He’s an old man, but he lives in New York and will be available.’ At last the multi-millionaire left. Two days later a cheque for two hundred dollars arrived — ‘A small contribution towards the Museum.’

  Monroe arranged the meeting with Hopper, and had schooled the elderly painter and told him the Bing Crosby story. ‘If you get on well with him he may possibly buy another picture of yours.’

  John Jacob arrived at the Hopper show. ‘This is Mr Hopper.’ ‘Glad to know you. I’ve got one of your pictures.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ says Hopper vaguely. ‘Now tell me, Mr Hopper, of all the pictures you’ve painted, which is your favourite?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says the bored Hopper. ‘But what subjects do you like best? The ones you do of railroads?’ ‘Not specially,’ said Hopper lugubriously. ‘Well, now I think I’ve got your best picture,’ continued John Jacob determinedly. ‘Oh, yes?’ queries Hopper. John Jacob, undaunted, describes the picture: ‘Do you remember a painting with a view you see from the railroad on 126th Street between Lexington and Third?’ ‘No, can’t say I do,’ says Hopper.

  The tour of the exhibition is made in silence. In front of one picture John Jacob halts. ‘Oh, yes, I recognize that scene. That’s the railroad just before you get to Rhinecliffe. But that house — is that there? No, there’s no house like that on the line!’ cries John Jacob. ‘No,’ says Hopper, ‘I never paint from life. I do all my work in the studio; I just make up the picture in my mind!’ ‘But the picture of yours that I have is absolutely correct. You must have painted that one on the spot.’ ‘No, in my studio,’ says Hopper stubbornly.

  John Jacob leaves Hopper to go behind the scenes, and in a small room off the gallery he asks: ‘Would Hopper paint the street where I live — 81st Street? At one end is the Metropolitan Museum and the other the Funeral Parlour.’ ‘Let’s ask him.’ In reply Hopper shrugs his shoulders. ‘I never go out and paint what I see. Maybe if I look at your street I could get some sort of impression — maybe of the Funeral Parlour?’ ‘I only want you to paint my house,’ continued John Jacob, ‘if you feel inspired. But 81st’s a street with an atmosphere. Now I’ll tell you — I love New York City and I love it all the year round. I like it even in summer, even in great heat. Except last summer — that was too much for me. Last July I went out of my house and walked up the street and there was no one about. I went as far as Fifth Avenue. There was still not a living soul to be seen. It was peculiar: I felt strange. I said to myself: “You’re in a completely deserted city. You’d better get out!” Believe me that evening I quit! Now that just shows 81st Street has some sort of an atmosphere! So if you feel like painting a picture of 81st Street for me, I’d be very pleased.’

  Monroe thanked him on the part of Hopper, and thanked him on the part of the Museum for the contribution. ‘We’re all thrilled by your generosity,’ Monroe said. John Jacob said: ‘It should have been more, and I know it.’

  EDWARD JAMES

  New York

  Edward James,[12] sporting an extraordinary beard, says each day he is leaving for his habitation in Mexico on the morrow, but he goes on borrowing days, and thereby enjoying a sense of holiday. When, eventually, he arrives on his remote mountain top it will be only for a moment — for he is due back here at a certain date to continue his almost unceasing fight with lawyers. He is not so much a poet, writer, painter or connoisseur of art as perhaps he would like to be, but he is a great professional fighter. Wherever Edward goes there is trouble, yet he never seems to be unnerved. On his recent return to West Dean, the family seat in Sussex, having been away all the war, he accused his father’s servants of having appropriated the linen, mislaid the stamp collection, and of generally behaving badly.

  But Edward knows his own failings more intimately than anyone else. The intricate complications of his perverse m
ind and his startling eccentricities give him enormous enjoyment; he laughs with a high cackle at them. There is no hope for him.

  Edward arranges to buy another drawing from Dali in order to induce Dali to repaint the sky of one of his earliest oil paintings which has since become ruined by mould or blisters. Edward then discovers in Mexico City the fantastic pictures of the Englishwoman Leonora Carrington. His loyalties switch. He will tell the Dalis that his lawyers have refused to allow him to buy the very expensive Dali drawing, but in order to keep the Dalis sweet he buys a piece of costume jewellery for Dali’s wife Gala. It was reduced from sixty dollars to thirty dollars at Saks. Edward roars with delight. ‘Gala will take it to be “expertized”, and when she finds out it is false she will be furious, but I will be back in Mexico City. And if Dali refuses to repaint the sky I shall get my lawyers to sue him as it is really too bad! It’s entirely his fault — he mixed the wrong varnish.’

  Next day Edward forgets he has told me about the costume jewellery. ‘How do you like this brooch for Gala? Pretty, isn’t it? It cost sixty dollars.’ ‘Thirty dollars, Edward.’ Edward claps his hands together, gives a leap in the air, and rushes round the room like a cat on hot bricks, yelling with fiendish laughter.

  AUDREY BOUVERIE

  Audrey James-Marshall-Field-Bouverie[13] is a good friend, tough and courageous. After a varied career she has now achieved francs in France, pounds in England, and dollars in America. She manages always to overcome war-restriction difficulties: she has the best of all worlds. While in New York she has a face-lift and a new jaw and dentures. She buys like a mad sailor: Impressionist paintings, Meissen porcelain, furs, Fulco jewellery — anything that strikes her fancy. She does not know how to retrench.

  A journalist interviews her. ‘Mrs Bouverie, what do you think of “the new look”? What are you going to wear to Miss Elsa Maxwell’s party tonight?’

  Audrey, vexed, and unable to compete with this sort of prewar ‘Bright Young Thing’ attitude, answers: ‘My new teeth.’

  Overheard on Central Park South: Two ladies airing a dog. One says: ‘Well, I read the “Sure Hand of God” and it is the dirtiest thing!’

  ADELE ASTAIRE

  Adele was having a whisky and soda and, between trills from the latest hit song, was conversing with the waiter when I arrived in her hotel suite to have lunch with her. The waiter was giving Adele fascinating titbits of information: he found one of the richest men in the world on his knees in the bathroom cooking a can of soup over an improvised stove in order to avoid the room service charges. Adele’s drink was ordered because she had just spent $595 on an evening dress and needed sustenance. She was aghast at the price she had paid but could not resist the beauty of the confection. ‘It’s all right to wear ready-made clothes outside New York, but you just can’t have everyone know you had only spent $25. But if you go to a party and find several other people wearing the same expensive dress, you’re pleased to know how rich you are. Besides, I think it does you good to get something you’ve been hankering after for a long time.’

  ‘When did you first start hankering for your new dress?’

  ‘This morning.’

  Adele couldn’t decide whether she would ask her new husband to pay for it or whether she would stump up herself. Her husband had promised to pay for the mink cape she’d just bought. Adele’s doing a lot of shopping now.

  It is quite staggering to realize that Adele is almost fifty. The skinny little waif of Stop Flirting has put on a bit of weight (seven pounds, she says), and she admits that her neck has become ‘crepy’. But she is still youthful with amused, bright eyes. It is no wonder that she recently re-married. She was lonely at Lismore[14] after Charlie died, and she got sick of going to bed at nine o’clock at night. Although the castle was left to her for life, she did not feel the place belonged to her and decided, instead of becoming an old Irish vegetable, to start again in New York. If her children had lived instead of dying prematurely they would have been fifteen and twelve years old now. But Adele said: ‘I suppose it was meant that way’, and she confessed that she really had no maternal instinct. Her husband’s three sons ‘embarrass’ her, she admitted.

  The Devonshire family had been very generous to her and, thanks to Charlie’s secret business transactions, she is now left well-off.

  Her devoted husband, Kingsie, divorced a rich wife to marry Adele who is now boosting him to become rich in his own right. He works in Wall Street all day and often goes off on business trips. The result is that she does not feel fully married — which is just how she wishes it, for, she says, she does not want to look, or to feel, married.

  She accepts her age gracefully and gives genuine encouragement to new people coming up into the limelight — which is remarkable, for rarely does it happen in the theatre that those who have been stars in their youth, with all the adulation it entails, are able to readjust themselves to retirement. In her own kooky way Adele has much wisdom.

  When I left her she was off to Bergdorf Goodman’s to buy a silk dressing gown for Kingsie as he hadn’t got one that she liked. While she was about it, she might pop in to Tiffany’s.

  PHOTOGRAPHERS AND PHOTOGRAPHING

  The bath water was running when Louise Dahl-Wolfe, the photographer whose work is so gentle and whose antennae are so sharp, telephoned. She thanked me for sending My Royal Past which she had never seen before. She was very appreciative — even fulsome — and asked me who had posed for the pictures in the book.

  She was speaking from her New York studio, but had cancelled the sitting for which she had specially come in from the country (‘Where we live it’s where all the cows and things are — oh, it’s quite rural’) because she had a cold coming on. She didn’t feel like taking pictures: she had to look after herself. It gave me the thought that over here people know better than those in my country how to take care of themselves: that old heroine Gertrude Pidout in the London Vogue office continued to hold the fort even while suffering from ’flu till eventually she fainted in a bus trying to reach home one night. I also drag myself out to work when I’m a ‘hospital-case’ for I don’t like the idea of cancelling other people’s arrangements unless my situation is grave.

  Louise told me of the aftermath of the Snow[15] dinner at which Frances McFadden had asked me in what direction I thought fashions in photography were going. It seems I had answered that it was time to give up all this ‘piss elegance’ and to get more reality into the pictures. Two days later the ‘Beauty Conference’ took place. The suggestion for the next cover came from Frances McFadden[16] who wanted a woman to be photographed with her hair all wet and set with pins before going under the dryer. Louise did not think that would be photogenic. Mrs Snow said: ‘Oh, no!’ And McFadden said wistfully: ‘Well, after all it is reality we’re after!’

  Louise then talked with much admiration of Charlie James’s clothes and said how sad it was Diane Vreeland[17] seldom gave her his things to be photographed for the magazine. ‘Can’t you get it right between them, Cecil? If you just explain to Diane that you think he’s the one person with a grain of inspiration and originality in this country?’

  We had talked so long that my bath was cold and already it was lunchtime. Thinking there’s no time like the present, I telephoned Charlie to know if he were free for a late lunch; but I warned him not to be late as I would have to leave at 2.30 for a photograph sitting. I explained I had a plan to discuss. The plan was how best to bring Diane and him together. She is an appreciative, sensitive person and I know she would respond to such an interesting type as Charlie. But if I arranged a lunch would Charlie give his word not to be insulting — not to create a scene? He can be relied upon to do much harm to himself; but for his own tortured character he would have succeeded long before this. If he had decided to use his extraordinary brain as a philosopher or a writer, the world could have benefited by his originality and few individuals would have known how tricky and unhappy an individual he is. However, there are not eno
ugh women in New York who realize he has genius and who will put up with his behaviour.

  Charlie said he would come around immediately — but of course he was late. When at last he materialized my mood changed to exasperation. ‘I’ve been waiting nearly an hour for you, Charlie, and there’s so little time left to talk.’

  ‘Oh, I stopped and had a hamburger on the way.’

  Is it to be wondered at that my wish to help turned sour? The more Charlie’s voice droned on like a road-drill about his workroom difficulties, his latest unrequited love affair, and his hatred of Elizabeth Arden, the more expert he proved himself at showing his natural instinct for saying the wrong thing. ‘The plan’ was Charles is in many ways like his namesake, Edward, who is less embittered as a person, for he knows his own faults and admits his guilt. Charles James fumes and foams without ever seeing that it might be he who is in the wrong.

  Naturally I was late for my appointment. New York was under a heavy pall of muddy snow like fudge, and the traffic almost at a standstill. I got into a bus, but it would have been better to walk. However, when on arrival at the studio the sitter hadn’t appeared, I had no idea in what manner I should photograph Mrs Vincent Astor. Would my intuition and instinct save me from a predicament? I had brought no preconceived ideas to the sitting, neither had I thought fit to suggest that the studio provide me with props or aids to inspiration.

  Margaret Case was the editor-in-charge of the sitting. (It is often maddening for the photographer to have an editor present, her backside in front of his lens just as he is about to take the picture, interrupting with some smart name-dropping.) While awaiting the sitter, Margaret and I bemoaned the death of that dear Frank Crowninshield. Suddenly the young telephone operator announced: ‘Mrs Vanderbilt.’ ‘How right you are!’ I said to her. I felt: Vanderbilt, Astor, they’re all the same; there’s precious little difference between any of them that come to these ‘Society sittings’: As it happens, Minnie Astor is a sensitive and intuitive girl with a big heart and plenty of flair; but these are not the reasons why she was inveigled here this afternoon. According to the Life magazine article, the three Cushing sisters each had ‘delivered the goods’ by marrying the richest men in the city.