The Happy Years (1944-48)

by Cecil Beaton

  We came back to my rooms to drink vodka, and laugh and playfully taunt one another. When it was time for her to leave she delayed, gossiping nonchalantly in the doorway, and our mutual friend, Serge Obolensky, passed by. At first he looked a little surprised, but he greeted us charmingly and then walked on down the long corridor. ‘Well, I do have the rottenest luck!’ she said. ‘I bet “the little man” will see me next time, then my goose will be cooked.’ Greta returned to my room and telephoned ‘the little man’. Later she explained: ‘He isn’t feeling at all well. He is sick of having to look after all the difficult people in his business, and I guess he’s tired by the end of the day.’ This was the first time that she had talked to me about ‘the little man’, and I wondered hopefully if perhaps her friendship with him had not become something in the nature of an obligation. I asked: ‘Does it make it easier for you if I try to be friends with him? Shall I ask him in for a drink?’ ‘Better try to be friends,’ said Greta sadly.

  I was waiting inside her hotel, having missed her at the door. She returned, rather panicky, and at once saw me sitting on the hall sofa and spotted that I did not look well. I had been fighting a cold for two days and had taken a lot of aspirin and now felt exhausted. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘I won’t tell you.’ In fact, her intention had been to take me to see an Odilon Redon which perhaps she might buy, but its owner had gone away. Instead she directed me to a bookshop with a special Swedish gift department upstairs. We looked at the most hideous Swedish toys, painted glass, ‘arty-crafty’ decorations on aprons, and paper tablecloths. Only the little bundles of sticks for whipping sauces and cleaning pots delighted me. Although critical of the taste of almost everything here, I was appreciative of the sentiment that was at the back of our visit. It touched me quite a lot to have her want me to share her enthusiasm for an old-fashioned Swedish Christmas.

  She was utterly charming and natural with all her fellow-countrymen serving in the shop, and seemed to feel quite at home and unharassed by them. When she speaks in her native language she becomes very smiling and relaxed, and her face brightens. She bought some Swedish magazines and then we went on to the Swedish cake shop that smelt of cinnamon and sweet spices, and was festive with busy activity. ‘How sad it is to see these things transplanted from their native hearth,’ Greta regretted. ‘It is so different from one’s childhood; all the colours are wrong: those cartons used to be dark red — now they are too pale and yellow. Everything has deteriorated.’ But the cakes looked delicious, and we bought ginger biscuits and each gave the other a huge ‘lucky heart’.

  We returned, parcel-laden, to her rooms in the Ritz Tower. After a moment her doorbell rang, and the porter brought in a lot of packages for ‘Miss Brown’. ‘Would you mind if I opened that one now?’ she asked, holding a large box. ‘There may be flowers in it, and they oughtn’t to die all cased up.’ She opened the box and a look of displeasure came over her face as she read a card, then glanced at the flowers as though she hated the sight of them. ‘Don’t you like them?’ I asked. ‘Oh no, they’re Hollywood ones’, and she produced four huge mauve orchids. I have sufficient vulgarity and inherent bad taste in me to feel these most expensive of hothouse flowers have a certain Boldini-1914-grande-cocotte glamour about them. But, for her, they are everything that is artificial and unsuitable.

  I asked why she went to such lengths as having her parcels addressed to a pseudonym? She did not reply. And why did she not allow even her friends to allude to her as Greta? Personally, I found their talk about ‘Miss Gee’ very self-conscious. Greta remarked that she intensely disliked her first name. ‘Then,’ I asked, ‘what shall I call you in future?’ ‘Wife,’ she said, as she went to fill a vase in the bathroom. I raised my voice above the running tap and, as if calling her in the garden, shouted: ‘Wife! Wife!’ But she remonstrated: ‘No, no — you must be very quiet; there is never any sound in this apartment. It’s as if no one ever lived here: never any noises at all’, and I can well believe it.

  Christmas Eve

  In bed all day with my wretched cold never improving: I felt sluggish and lifeless. Greta said she would come in sometime during the afternoon. She appeared, her face like velour and her eyes rather lined. She had not fallen asleep until four o’clock in the morning, having, at 2.30, got up and smoked half a cigarette and had a drink before lying awake again for over an hour. Then today, again early, she had been battling for presents in the crowds. She had even been down to Macey’s where, she said, the poor shop assistants were now in a coma.

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Why sure — the poor things have been on their feet all this time, and they just look at you in a daze and they don’t know what they’re doing. And I saw two men — they were so drunk! I have never seen men so drunk — and one was trying to hold the other, but they couldn’t keep up, and they were already wet when, suddenly, they fell right in front of a car, and they just scraped the snow off the mud-guards. Oh, it was terrible to see them so drunk.’

  Greta took off her coat and folded herself at the foot of the bed. She hid her face in a mop of hair — like Susy, my mother’s dog at home. She became coy and stammered: ‘You must be quiet and not get yourself worked up; it’s not good for your cold.’ But I said that I was only preserving myself for her: then, peeping out through her hair, she replied that she had no answer to that one.

  She did not wish to come near me and catch my germs, nor for me to see the spot she had on her nose. ‘I’m so conscious of it,’ she said, ‘that when people on the street said “Happy Christmas”, I squinted and couldn’t see beyond my nose.’

  For Christmas breakfast tomorrow she has arranged with ‘the little black and white friend’[32] (Mercedes de Acosta) that I should join her. ‘Mercedes must have been rather intrigued when she heard you were bringing me?’ I said. ‘Oh, I didn’t tell her who I’d be bringing. I merely asked: “Have you room for an extra lost soul?” and Mercedes said “Yes”. “Are you sure you have a plate?” I asked her. “Yes, but who is it you are bringing?” “It doesn’t matter who it is — you’ll know soon enough so long as you’ve got the extra plate.”’ I was amused, yet appalled that Mercedes always plays the wrong cards.

  Christmas Day

  My cold almost recovered, but the habit of staying in bed takes a hold, and I found it was an upheaval to get to Greta’s by midday, as there were a number of last-minute parcels to do up. A wad of presents conveniently arrived for me so I passed on some of these to others. G. had again slept badly, and her face was so white that it made her hair, which fell in a mass of curls, appear darker. Greta’s room was filled with packages and a lot of slowly dying flowers: some sweetheart roses were jammed into a coffee pot. Greta had been up since seven o’clock tying and sorting packages, and now had a vast cardboard box filled for Mercedes. While waiting for her I opened the kitchenette door, partly out of idle curiosity, but this gesture brought from her a violent admonition. ‘I hate curiosity. I dislike it intensely if people don’t mind their own business.’ I felt utterly crushed, and it took a long time for me to recover.

  The arrival at Mercedes’s went off at half-cock. Mercedes did not appear surprised or particularly delighted to see me, and her apartment seemed small and crowded and the atmosphere rather unpleasant and strange. Mercedes, unable to hide her anxiety, was extremely preoccupied with the thought of having to prepare a meal. Greta, sensing the climate, at once took control and entertained us all with a most amusing and adroit performance. She sang snatches of songs: the lugubrious Swedish Salvation Army hymn, and ‘Nobody Knows The Troubles I’ve Seen But Jesus’. She recited, sprawling with legs high on the sofa, short poems by unknown writers and bits of hymns. In contrast to all her random, higgledy-piggledly outpourings, she was also very executive and, when Mr Everley, the fourth guest, arrived, she went off to the kitchen and, with towel around her hips, cooked ham and eggs. When she returned she was still in an authoritative mood and forbade Mercedes to distribute the presents.
‘No, we do that later, and we don’t make a mess of the room.’

  Later, when the meal was over, and everyone had given their gifts, Greta produced her large box of prizes. Then with adroit but apparently casual introductions, she offered to each the presents she had chosen with such care. ‘This is ten cents store’ — ‘This is wholesale’ — ‘This hasn’t got the price on, has it?’ When Mr Everley gave Greta his present she read the card and said: ‘Oh, Mr Everley, haven’t you been rather lavish? Your phrasing is over-extravagant.’ Greta, even now, was careful not to give anyone the impression that she could be on intimate terms with them. Mercedes, poor dear, always at her worst in Greta’s presence, in a rather too canny way, overtly bragged of their friendship: ‘... that time when you wouldn’t let me buy that coffee pot...’ — ‘... that pink vase you liked so much ...’ — ‘... that holiday we spent together in the desert...’. This was not lost on Greta who rather abruptly smacked her down. Mercedes, however, did not seem to resent any rebuff. Greta alluded to me as ‘Mr Beaton’, and Everley as ‘Everley’; but under her breath she said to me: ‘Don’t you dare ever call anyone “darling” but myself!’

  With wonderful timing, and in a very casual way so that no one would suspect (‘sussed’ as she says) that there was any method in her madness, Greta left the party punctually at three o’clock for, it turned out, she had an appointment. We walked home arm-in-arm; but when we neared the ‘danger zone’ I had to wait while she walked on ahead lest ‘the little man’ should see us together.

  At first, the thought that I was being ‘a bit of a masher’ in being seen about with a film star made me quite a bit embarrassed. Now most of the outward aspects of ‘glamour’ — which have been difficult to disregard for my friend was considered its very embodiment — have been almost entirely supplanted by the much stronger individual qualities of someone who insists on remaining private. This makes things much easier for me. I find that I now almost take for granted the miracle of having this unique person so close to me.

  At first she did not wish to go out to meet friends of mine, neither did I like the idea of my friends gossiping among themselves about my secret. By degrees, the burden became almost too heavy and I wanted to lighten it by proving that it was real. It would be a relief to decant some of my bottled-up emotions. As usual, Greta proves unaccountable. After she has refused to meet my Russian friends, Pavlik and Natascha,[33] whom I know she will find understanding and sympathetic, she decides to change her mind. Once having decided she would like to go out to dinner, or to drinks, she prepares for the occasion with great excitement. Always a great ‘to-do’ about what she shall wear from her ‘poor little trunk’. Once we arrive at a friend’s home she comports herself with the greatest ease and seems to take complete charge of the situation, treating everyone to a virtuoso performance of charm and magnetism.

  Greta needed little coaxing to go and see Nicky Gunzberg’s Balzacesque apartment. She liked it not only for having a highly civilized style and patina that is rare in New York, but also for being sombre and cosy. She seemed to be relaxed and enjoying herself. Then Natascha started to retail the latest New York scandal of the little grass widow from Paris who, in the absence of her hostess, a woman of violent temperament, went to bed with her host. The wife’s discovery of the two caught inflagrantes is a classic farce situation, but made melodramatic in this instance by the wife’s bringing out a whip. We all had our contribution to add to the saga which has been on many lips, especially since it had been alluded to in the newspaper columns. I noticed that Greta had become silent, and when we left the apartment she said: ‘Oh, Mr Beaton, I’ve still got to teach you so much! How can you degrade yourself to the level of telling such ordinary, boring details of gossip? Why did it interest you? What’s so funny?’ Greta considered it unworthy to take cognizance of the fact that two people, a man and a woman, were found in bed together. ‘It’s not important! It’s a natural thing (‘naahr-turrel thingge’) to do — it’s the law of nature! The poor little man suddenly feels in need of a woman and so he goes to bed with one. The fact that it gets into the papers is the reason why you’re so interested, but it’s not interesting really. It’s a biological fact (‘fucktte’) and it happens all the time; behind all these windows it’s going on now,’ and she waved her arm at the surrounding skyscrapers. ‘It’s nothing — of no importance; it’s just a biological fact.’

  We went to an exhibition of Pavlik Tchelitchew’s early pictures, mostly zouaves, clowns, acrobats and other circus figures, etc. She admired Pavlik’s technique, but refused to be entirely impressed and considered his colour too morbid. She liked the portrait of Natascha Paley. ‘It gives her a wonderful, mysterious and spiritual quality that she does not possess, and the veiled eyes produce a strange look. It is like a stepping-stone to death.’

  VISIT TO ERICH REMARQUE

  If one pokes into odd corners of this city one can find posses of Italians, Germans, Moors, Greeks and Finns living, in spite of their present situation, much as they might be in their native haunts. Tonight, in Erich Remarque’s suite in the Ambassador Hotel, a group of Germans sat drinking — not the usual whisky — but delicious Moselle. They conversed about politics, the theatre and wine as only the most civilized of Germans could — surrounded by Remarque’s collection of oriental pictures, objets d’art, Persian carpets and Chinese pottery which gave such character to this otherwise anonymous apartment.

  Greta is permanently endowed with what is known as ‘star quality’ and this works for her whenever she enters a room: by the time she had placed herself on a sofa, with Old Gold held aloft, and imparted the information: ‘I never call anybody by their first names, but when I discovered that Maria was Remarque’s second name I never miss an opportunity to use it’, she had the half-dozen men present completely ‘Garbonized’.

  The talk in German and English (Greta speaks German fluently and makes the language sound melodious) was mostly of foreign interests and personalities, and the theatre and the movies in Berlin and Vienna in particular. It showed me that although Greta has lived — twenty years, is it? — in this country, her instincts and real tastes are middle-European. When Oscar Homolka, the actor, confided to her that he would like to live in England, where people were ‘real’, Greta seemed impressed and sympathetic. The drinking continued, and the empty, elegant, tall-necked bottles were put in a row on the floor: soon a regiment had assembled. Four hours passed. The talk was splendid — continental and witty. Each time Greta suggested maybe we should leave, another bottle of Moselle was brought out. The room was filled with smoke: ashtrays became piled with cigar and cigarette stubs. I was bemused, but with the uncorking of the tenth bottle of Moselle, I began to baulk and became tired without being drunk. Four o’clock struck. At last the others were becoming slightly tipsy. I knew that Greta would remain till dawn if I didn’t make the move.

  When we left Erich’s re-creation of Berlin we were surprised to find ourselves on an almost totally deserted Park Avenue. On our way home there were only one or two people to be seen, so we had plenty of time to embrace each other unmolested on doorsteps and at street corners. Whenever any pedestrian did happen to heave into sight, in simulated Brooklyn accents, and in loud voices, we argued as we stood gesticulating violently. ‘Now listen, buddy, you can’t tell me nothin’ about stocks.’ ‘Well, I’ll tell you what — put your money where your mouth is. All the action is in footwear and ready-mades.’ ‘Now listen, twenty bucks will bring you a hundred before you can say “Parcheesi”.’ ‘And then what?’ ‘Now listen to me — you put ten thousand in the rack, and you can tell any buddy where the hell to get off...’ Then we laughed and clung to one another like limpets: it was almost impossible to drag ourselves apart. The walk home in the surprising cold was delightful. Greta waited on her doorstep to wave until I was out of sight. Back at my hotel I at once telephoned to her. We laughed with surprise as we recollected the events during our twelve hours together. Tomorrow we are to spend a
great deal more time in each other’s company.

  The most beautiful woman of our time was sporting her ‘new look’ skirt, by now much too long and baggy. With this she wore three sweaters, and stuck between her brows was a ‘frown plaster’.

  In spite of everything, Greta, in her unselfconscious way, proved the most alluring, fascinating creature. She aroused in me feelings of protectiveness, amusement and desire. At any rate, I was accused of ruining the entire evening by pinioning her against the wall. ‘No, don’t massage me! ... Don’t get lipstick on you! ... No — time is short — we must go!’

  Out into the ice-cold night for dinner at a Brazilian restaurant called Semon. The atmosphere was convivial, the food savoury, and we were both hungry. Greta’s mood was joyful and I was in good spirits. She told comic stories — she has a fount of them — the sort that no matter how many times I hear them I can never remember them. If I try to tell a comic story in return she stops me if the premise is not probable. ‘Nothing is funny to me that isn’t a possibility.’

  I entertained her by telling her how effeminate I had been as a small boy, and of how distressing it must have been to my father to discover that I showed no inclination to follow in his footsteps and become a great cricketer. Rather I acquired an abnormal interest in women’s fashions: somehow I even managed to wear the regulation preparatory school-caps and felt hats so that they resembled those of the ladies appearing in the Sketch and Play Pictorial. Also, being stage-struck, I developed an absorbed interest in actresses’ make-up. Whenever, on family birthdays or at Christmas, we went to musical comedies or pantomimes, I would peer through the opera glasses to marvel at the eyelids painted turquoise blue, and the little dots of scarlet at the inner corners of the eyes.