The Happy Years (1944-48)

by Cecil Beaton

  However detailed one’s instructions and drawings may be, there are always bound to be major readjustments made as one sees the designs taking shape. What looks well on paper may have to be amplified or minimized in reality: what one dancer can wear, another cannot. And the final effect can be ruined by the lighting.

  I have, at last, learnt that every stage undertaking comprises ten times as much work as originally envisaged, and, as usual, on this project the number of designs required increased each week. Perhaps the best theatrical results are always achieved with much pain and anguish but, although my eyes and back ached over the drawing-board, and it was sometimes with the numbness of death that I took myself eventually to bed, this was an experience of the utmost pleasure; working conditions can never have been more idyllic. While Gerald Berners worked at his piano in the drawing-room of his small eighteenth-century house in Faringdon, near Oxford, I laboured, with more detailed love and care than usual, upon the designs in an upstairs bedroom. Lunch was not only a pleasant interlude but a gastronomic treat. At the end of the day I would show Gerald my progress, he would play his score, while Freddie’s imagination was fired to further frivolities. After dinner, upstairs again to paint another filigree row of struts in the Trouville pier or more ducks’-eggs pearls on Otero’s costume.

  Feeling confident that I had left behind me a delightful legacy, I returned to the States on the tenth of July. It was with dreadful anguish that I heard, two months later, lukewarm reports of our united effort on Ouïda’s Moths. Yes, it was faintly amusing; Margot, with eyes rolling, tongue in cheek and rose behind the ear, was alluring in her black jet and flounces; some of Freddie’s choreography for his oriental entourage and the bathers was witty; but my designs were considered too fashionable, and Helpmann, bursting into song, embarrassed the Covent Garden audience. Gerald was beginning to suffer from the illness from which he died, and was, no longer, at the height of his powers. His perverse and comic music did not carry an evening; it was not in the serious mood of the moment when post-war ballet enthusiasts were looking for something more significant. The ballet soon faded from memory.

  ‘PATINEURS’ AND ‘LA DAME AUX CAMÉLLIAS’

  July, 1946: New York

  I am bad at turning down jobs, for I know how difficult they are to come by. It has taken me a long while to feel that, as a designer, I have achieved a foot-hold in the American theatre, but suddenly a deluge of offers descended on me.

  While working to evoke the atmosphere of a Victorian tuppence-coloured, Hoxton-toy-theatre snow-scene for Chabrier’s sugar-sweet music, a more ambitious ballet project presented itself. I was offered the designing of a full-length La Dame aux Camellias for Markova to dance. No sooner had Madame Karinska finished making the fondant-coloured tarlatan tutus for the skater ballet than she set her old Russian refugees to work caparisoning grandes-cocottes of the sixties in the richest silks, velvets and furs.

  I myself could not have chosen a more felicitous subject for my designs than Camille. Yet, having accepted the offer, I was bereft of inspiration. My friends in the Public Library produced books of reference by the dozen, and Miss Polaire Weissman, in the Costume Art section of the Metropolitan, even brought out from her fine collection original dresses and undergarments so that our costumes would have the authentic cut. I filled notebooks with details of bonnets, gas-brackets, grillwork scrolls, pediments and ornamental vases, pelmets for curtains, fringes for ottomans and trimmings for crinolines, but still no overall conception came to me.

  In desperation I took my plight to Pavlik Tchelitchew.[19] Pavlik can be a difficult friend; he is apt to be touchy and fractious. He is terribly jealous — not only of other painters, but almost anyone with public acclaim can generate wrath in him. It was once repeated to him that I said he was even envious of Shirley Temple: fortunately he saw the joke. Without realizing it one can offend him by praising Picasso or Matisse, and for weeks on end one will be in his bad books. (Once, after an estrangement, someone played us a Tchaikovsky record, and Pavlik’s Russian heart melted in an emotional reconciliation.)

  But Pavlik can also be the most generous friend, showering presents of his fine drawings, giving advice about an artist’s work, recommending galleries, and being kind in the most unexpected ways. Without seeming to realize the magnitude of his help, he will knock off from his own work to throw the crumbs of his inspiration to others. Many is the time in the past that he has sent me home with a whole wad of odd scraps of paper, or old envelopes, covered with his spidery little drawings that are the kernel for a whole production. Once more he came to the rescue.

  I showed him my tentative scribbles. ‘No, it’s no use having all that scenery. You must invent a scheme for the dance — a device — that will fill the imagination. This is a ballet, not a stage drama. Build only a light framework: make your changes within that. Be ingenious: forget life-like proportions: use false perspectives. Re-create a forgotten world, a world you have never seen, so that the audience will gasp with surprise and recognition. Make everything gold and glittering, and rich and dusty. All the whores should be like Victorian jewellery — make one a topaz, another amethyst or sapphire or ruby.’ Pavlik’s fountain-pen was skimming over pieces of tissue paper with authority and zest. Each indication was a treasure. ‘And the country idyll must be full of wheat sheaves and sheaves of corn and corn-stooks.’ Within a few moments the ballet was designed. All I had to do was to go back to my hotel and start to work elaborating carefully in colour and detail his marvellous bone-work. Pavlik never expects to be thanked, and seldom is. How could I ever think of him but with a full heart?

  The scenery, involving a ballroom, a countryside, and a bedroom, was made to change to the music in full view of the audience. The ingenuity of the stage carpenters was stretched to its farthest extent in an effort to produce something that had not been tried before. Somehow they achieved a marvel. When the scenes were set, and the dancers came on stage in Karinska’s ball-costumes, enthusiasm turned to euphoria. Pavlik joyously clasped Karinska, his great friend and compatriot, who had made of each costume a work of art. Markova, a thistledown Camille, would surely reach her highest peak. The lights in the auditorium gave way to an impenetrable darkness: the curtain went up on the Victorian jewellery.

  The ballet started. As we sat watching, only a few moments passed before we realized that there was no ballet. The choreographer had given the dancers nothing to do. Camille and Armand executed a few cursory steps: the corps de ballet performed routines of the utmost banality. It was inevitable that on the following night, in front of a packed house, the evening became a disaster which even Markova could not prevent. Here was another ballet that was soon forgotten.

  Part V: California and New York, 1946

  IN SEARCH OF GRETA’S HOUSE

  August, 1946: Beverly Hills, California

  Cruelly enough, while Greta is away in Sweden other stage work has brought me within a few blocks of her house. Finally it has been arranged that a Los Angeles management[20] is to re-create the London Lady Windermere production so that after a short trial on the coast, it will come to Broadway.

  Not only have I been in charge of the building of sets and costumes, but, quite by chance, I have become a member of the cast. There was difficulty in finding a suitable Englishman for the small, but effective, role of Cecil Graham, the waspish gossip who finds Lady Windermere’s fan underneath a cushion in Lord Darlington’s rooms. One morning, on the way to the Scenic Paint Shop, I passed ‘the management’ in the Carpenters’ Workshop and let drop the idea I had had last night after dinner, sitting out by Cole Porter’s pool, that I should play Cecil Graham. ‘You must have been drunk!’ was ‘the management’s’ reply. This gave me the incentive to prove myself. I wired to three close friends to ask if they advised me to exhibit myself for the first time on the stage. Their replies — all negative — only increased my determination to take the gamble if the director considered I would be a credit to him. After two rehearsals
he gave me the little plum of a part.

  Many times at intervals between rehearsals I telephoned to Greta’s empty house. There was always the chance that the owner might have returned unexpectedly; in any case it gave me a sort of uncanny fascination to hear the bell ringing unanswered: somehow I felt I was bringing my presence to bear in the owner’s absence.

  But tonight I carried out my long-conceived plan of visiting the home. Originally I had the idea of ringing the bell and asking the maid to allow me to plant some bulbs in the garden. I even went so far as to search for lily bulbs — but in vain: the nursery gardens had nothing worthy of representing me in her garden. Tonight I would, at any rate, discover where she lived.

  Californian nights are particularly romantic. I find something exciting in the fragrant atmosphere that is made up of orange blossom, the dama di notte, flowering acacia, and so many unnamed, but strongly scented, trees. The small white houses appear at their best, lit from within, and the warm glow coming through the windows contrasts with the cold blueness of moonlight.

  In my search for 622 Bedford Drive I walked along the palm-fringed avenues and pepper-treed drives of Beverly Hills. The numbers changed slowly but, at last, I came to the one to which my countless fervid letters had been addressed. ‘Six twenty-two’ was written in wrought iron in that quavery, witchlike style that is peculiar to Hollywood and is too lacking in tradition for my taste. This home, squat and low, did not seem a suitable abode for a goddess. It had a whimsical, toy-like quality that gave it the appearance of something at a garden exhibition. The rough-stained front door was illuminated by a frosted lantern. Stealthily I trod across the coarse green lawn. Lights were on in the hall and ground-floor rooms. I peered through the letter box. On the walls were a variety of bad modern pictures; sickening little miniatures were framed in groups by the chimney-piece, and everywhere were silver-framed photographs of celebrities: Elsie Mendl, Greer Garson, Ilona Massey, and dozens of blonde starlets. No-one of Greta’s personality could live in such an interior! With disgust I left. There must be some mistake!

  I discovered that number six twenty-two, to which I had written all my letters, was not Greta’s house but that of Harry Crocker.[21] This friend of Greta’s sends on all correspondence and parcels that arrive at his halfway junction. Here was another astonishing example of Greta’s mania for secrecy, and her lack of trust in her friends. I was hurt that I had not been favoured with her real address, to which nevertheless I made my way two nights later.

  Number nine hundred-and-four (the figures add up to the unlucky number) on the same drive is her real address. This house appeared utterly anonymous with two slit windows, heavily curtained, each side of the front door. I crept along by the garage entrance and found that the garden was hidden behind a high wall. Everything was very severe, clean and white, expensive-looking and rather agreeable. A wonderful magnolia tree in bloom scented the night.

  Later I returned home feeling content that this was a suitable house for so fine a hermit. I could well imagine my friend retreating behind the wall, and staying for days on end hiding even from her servant. The picture brought her closer to me.

  The more I see of the suburban intrigue and invidious standards of Hollywood’s film colony the more remarkable it is that this character exists, after fifteen years, completely unsullied or untouched by the influence of this ingrown and vulgar little community.

  It was only to be expected, before my photographs of Greta were to appear in Vogue, that word should go round in journalistic circles of the imminent scoop. I imagine ‘the little man’ asked why she had allowed me to publicize her. A week before the magazine was to be on all the bookstalls, Greta sent me a cable from Sweden saying that if more than one of the photographs were to appear I would never be forgiven. Frantic calls to my friends at Vogue: ‘Stop everything!’ It was too late: the copies were already bound and on their way throughout the country. Greta’s telegram was later followed by a letter saying she was deeply distressed at the idea of having any costume pictures of herself published unless they had to do with her work. She was after all a serious human. It was more than ever appalling to know that, through a complete misunderstanding, it was now impossible to prevent her from feeling completely betrayed. My abject cables, letters, telephone calls, and flowers sent to her in Sweden went by unanswered.

  I felt as if I had committed a murder.

  At this juncture it was fortunate that I was able to derive much satisfaction from my career in many of its various aspects: to realize that life can be satisfying even without all that one wants.

  After a sluggish start my creative efforts seemed to have built up a force that was pulling me forward with excitement. It gave me the realization that it was not just a question of work for work’s sake, or money — or even fulfilling some of the ambitions formed at Cambridge. It was more a feeling of achieving substance.

  The success of Lady Windermere, and the leap forward that my photographic activities now took, led to many promises of jobs from the States and France. I had much to please me.

  IN THE ‘LADY WINDERMERE’ CAST

  New York

  When Lady Windermere’s Fan opened in Santa Barbara I was almost numb with stage fright. By the time we had moved to San Francisco I had acquired some confidence. Los Angeles audiences are notoriously unreceptive and I learnt what it was to play against impossible odds — as on the night when the town’s electricity supply gave out and our ballroom scene was played in semidarkness. But once the production had been acclaimed in New York, the routine of appearing at the theatre for each evening and matinée completely delighted me. Novice that I was, I soon discovered that one must be always on the alert to what is coming from the audience: that each performance differed when at any moment some surprise element would promote an alteration of tone, voice pitch or pace. It was exhilarating to find oneself making discoveries in the craft of acting. I wondered how on earth I had spent my evenings before this opportunity arose for enjoying myself in the most exciting and exhibitionistic way, before going out to relish that well-earned drink and supper after the performance.

  SILENCE FROM GRETA

  We had not been ensconced in the Court Theatre on Broadway for more than a few days when Greta landed from her Scandinavian holiday. I telephoned her upon her arrival at the Ritz Tower. I was kept waiting a considerable time by the operator: doubtless Greta was talking to someone else. At last the operator said: ‘She don’t answer’, and I suspected that Greta was hiding from me.

  My feelings were a combination of such misery, loss, hurt and despair that my stomach asserted itself. I could neither eat, drink nor sleep. All day and every night I found myself being haunted by memories of our happy times together. I remembered so many unaccustomed aspects of her face: the pouts of compassion, the feckless gaiety, the frankness of her laugh, the allure of the smile with lowered eyelids. In my room I kept imagining that she would suddenly appear round a corner, looking startled, defiant or aggressive, in all sorts of strange garments. In the streets my mania did not leave me: every woman coming along the avenue would have something of Greta in her, but as the stranger approached I would see that in every way she was the antithesis of my idol. Yet I would be reminded of phases of Greta’s simplicity or some human quality even when watching a conventionally smart woman, with choker pearls and a ridiculous flowered hat, tottering along on high heels. Perhaps Greta had changed her style and decided to wear a different sort of hat? Now surely that profile perdu belongs to her? But the chin under the hat turned. It belonged to some quite coarse, ugly woman.

  The search continues. Time and again the same mistake is made: nowhere am I immune from the fateful possibility that Greta might be nearby — hidden in the crowd in the theatre, or in any unsuitable surroundings. Everything I see, every place I go to, brings back to me the times we spent together. Central Park has become an absolute nightmare of memories: each tree has its specific associations, and each mountain and hillock reminds me
of that advent of spring when we welcomed the first rays of sun and celebrated the coming warmth by lying full length on the grass.

  Now there is only silence. I fill the void by working excessively hard and making for myself as many distractions as possible. Every book I try to read manages to conjure up her image. Lady Murasaki describes Ytigao, a mysterious lady called after the white flowers known as ‘evening faces’ with petals half-unfolded like the lips of people smiling at their own thoughts: ‘about her too there was something fugitive, insubstantial. Genji was obsessed by the idea that, just as she had hidden herself in this place, so one day she would once more vanish and hide, and he would never be able to find her again. There was every sign that her residence here was quite temporary. He was sure that when the time came to move she would not tell him where she was going.’

  I am certain there will be no response to my notes but, nevertheless, I write. I refrain from telephoning too many times in order to avoid the inevitable agony of being told by the impervious operator that there is no reply. I know the situation is hopeless. Will time make it more bearable?

  Descartes wrote: ‘I love — therefore I am. When I no longer love I am no longer anything.’

  GRETA BY TELEPHONE