by Cecil Beaton
Greta was more put out than I was when the waiter rooked me at the end of the evening. By taking my ‘thank you’ as an excuse for not giving me any change from the money I proffered to pay the bill, he pocketed an outrageously oversized tip.
February, 1948
Before Korda had time to tell me what he had in mind for me to work on, I suggested he should do the Elizabeth of Austria play[34] by Jean Cocteau with Greta. He was fired with enthusiasm. ‘We do it right away in Shepperton in June. We shoot some of it in the Tyrol. We get any director she wants. But I don’t want any vagueness. She must sign if I’m going to spend time on the project!’ I saw before me a whole new vista with Greta in England.
I telephoned in great excitement to tell her the news. She was very quiet. ‘All right — I’ll have to think about it. I can’t think about it now — I’m too tired — but I’ll consider it in the morning.’ Korda telephoned her twice. ‘Come and see me this afternoon.’ Greta complied, taking ‘the little man’ with her. Everything went well. They were more or less decided they would make the picture. Greta would come to England for the studio work. A lot of telephoning back and forth about a director. Such sudden activity that Greta, who was supposed to leave for California, delayed her departure by another week: such excitement that she’d not been able to sleep. However, she was convinced, this time, that the picture would be made. Greta said: ‘I saw the play in all its wretchedness with Tallulah Bankhead, and I know there’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I’ll do it, but I’ve got to start preparing — getting fit right away, coaxing my body back in shape, exercising my arms — and if I’m going to wear décolletage there’s a lot to arrange. Yes, I know I’m going to do this film — I feel it. I’ve never been as close to anything before.’
We sat on the red sofa in my room, eating cold boiled eggs, toast, and avocado from the frigidaire. Greta asked me questions about how she would live in England. Where was the studio? Could she rent a small house nearby in order to take long walks in the evenings? It was good that in Hollywood, after the searing lights in the studios, you could get out into the clean sunlight and walk and breathe in fresh air. She wouldn’t want to live in a town while working. She wouldn’t be able to see anyone while on the job; she always gave herself entirely to the project — never saw anyone. We talked of Korda, and the possibilities of the cast and crew, and we were suddenly just as matter of fact as two businessmen. Greta telephoned Korda. ‘It is bad when the Empress tries to work her lover up to kill her by slanging at him like a fishwife. It should be done like an Empress.’ Greta has been thinking a great deal about the part.
Then she talked of her imminent return to California. ‘I know I mustn’t see any human beings for several days when I get back there. I must rest a lot and be alone.’ However, ‘the little man’ was in all Greta’s future plans; he seemed to have a proprietary right over her. It worried me and made me jealous and irritable.
Of all things! Greta was going to a Broadway opening night! Her erstwhile agent, Leland Hayward, had bullied her by saying: ‘I’ve always been working for you — now you can do something for me.’ At the thirteenth hour I was determined also to go to this dreary play (about sex-starved sailors in the Pacific), called Mr Roberts, and to have a bit of fun watching her. I managed to get a single ticket in the third row. For added amusement I took my spectacles so that we perhaps could repeat an earlier occasion when, at the film Cleopatra, I had put them on as a tease, and she had stared at me across the theatre almost as much as at the screen. It was the only time she had ever seen me wearing spectacles and it had intrigued her; two years later she had asked why I had never worn them since.
I looked around the crowded theatre to find the familiar hat that would be hiding the familiar features, but it was nowhere to be seen in the huge mob in the bulk of the stalls. I then remembered she always likes to be very near the stage, and there, sure enough, in the front row, staring basilisk-like at me, was her companion, ‘the little man’. When I saw her next to him my heart stopped. In the intimacy of my room I have become accustomed to the beauty of this face with bedraggled hair, or an old dark blue hat pulled down low onto her eyes. But this evening she appeared to me quite different. The onslaught was overwhelming. She had found a sort of skull-cap of black which hid her hair entirely: over this she wore a medieval hood which framed her face. I had never seen her appear more striking. The carving of her head was much more beautiful than it ever was in her youth, and the expression on her face had such compassion and nobility, yet somehow she retained the unexpectedness of fantasy.
With such an apparition in the audience it was impossible to keep one’s eyes directed towards the squalid naval ratings on the stage. Although, to her, I was like a needle in a haystack, she, in turn, spent a great deal of her time looking at me. With my head cocked at an odd angle so as to give the impression that I was unable to see her, out of the corners of my eyes I spent most of the evening glancing at her. Occasionally we indulged in a dangerous game of staring full-face at one another; surely the vibrations sent out must be felt by everyone in the theatre. Only when I imagined her companion might become conscious of this other interest did I hide my face from his view behind the heads of the people sitting between us.
I came home wondering if she would telephone. I knew she would be thinking about me — perhaps struggling not to call me. Then I became really worried and wondered if perhaps ‘the little man’, inspired by our chance encounter, had insisted that she must not go on seeing me; but I put down the darkness of this passing cloud to exhaustion and ill-health. Tonight this most beautiful creature had once more appeared as a stranger. Yet, in more lucid moments, I could not but feel proud that her glances had been for me, and that of all the people in the theatre I had been the one who was occupying her mind. But the telephone did not ring. After I had fought in vain for over an hour to lose consciousness I turned on the bedside light.
At one o’clock in the morning, just as I was about to close my book, the telephone rang. Her sad voice told me: ‘I’ve been lying here in the dark and can’t go to sleep. I’ve had a wretched time, and I’ve some very sad news for you.’ My heart turned over — my stomach pained me. ‘But how sad? Is it serious for you, or for me?’ She said it was not serious, but she could not talk about it on the telephone. I surmised that she had had long, unhappy discussions with ‘the little man’, and she said: ‘I’m afraid you must not make those arrangements to come to California.’ My heart sank. ‘What right has he to monopolize your life? He cannot complain if you have other plans — other friends. He has another life apart from the one with you.’ ‘That’s not so easy to say to him, but I can’t talk over the telephone.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘I can’t survive your disappearing again — as you did before.’ She would explain the situation tomorrow: we must meet during the day, and she promised to dine as well. Perhaps she exaggerates the gravity of the situation?
Yet I was most distressed and unable to sleep imagining her also lying awake in the dark. But of comfort to me was the tone of her voice and her endearments, for she had said, quite simply and honestly, that we loved each other, and that this was nothing to blame me for.
I rang at 10.15 in the morning and, alas, woke her from a deep sleep. She had not been able to drop off till so late that now she was breaking all rules by dozing on after 8 a.m. She suggested we meet after lunch for a long walk.
Dirty, smut-dotted snow was still on the ground. We were both sad and silent, our spirits low, and I had the feeling of dread that something violent would happen. But meanwhile, an effort must be made to be gay. Suddenly we met Mona taking the icy air. She looked forlorn and lonely, I thought, but maybe that is because one is not accustomed to seeing her by herself. Mona shot me a look that conveyed a world of meaning before we marched off in different directions. On returning to the Plaza, past the line of anachronistic hansom-cabs and up the marble steps, we went on the spur of the moment into the Palm Court. Here we ordered tea. Often whe
n hurrying to my room, probably late and most likely anguished, I had noticed the elderly ladies who, in a manner so untypical of New York, sat listening nostalgically to ‘Vilia’ and ‘Under the Deodar’ played by an old-fashioned string orchestra. Often before, I had wished that there had been time and leisure to enjoy this palm-treed oasis. Now, however, our mood was not as serene as the scene around us, for Greta, very sadly and haltingly, tried to tell me about the ‘tricky subject’. It seems that her companion had lately felt that there were all sorts of vibrations and nuances in the air that he cannot quite make out. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks. She has answered: ‘Nothing’, but he insists she is bored and restless, and doesn’t want to do the things she used to do. Without mentioning me, last night the companion must have made a painful scene. ‘I don’t talk about him,’ Greta said, ‘because there are people who talk about things and those who don’t, and I belong to the latter category. I wouldn’t talk about you either.’
‘The little man’ instinctively feels that there is something more than acquaintanceship in our relationship, and it worries him. The fact that Greta never mentions my name makes it the worse, but she confessed: ‘I just can’t bring myself to mention your name — it sticks in my throat, and he senses something that is never mentioned.’ Suddenly she said: ‘I’m afraid he feels very bitter towards you.’ I remonstrated. ‘It’s understandable,’ she said. ‘You’d be the same. Before you came along I never used to go out anywhere: now he knows I see you and he’s worried. He’s been such a good friend to me — none better. He’s an adorable being if you really get to know him. After four years of devoting his life to me, he has become very unhappy. I hate to make anyone feel sad, but it’s difficult — life is difficult.’
‘But he has made me unhappy. You even came to London with him and left without once letting me see you. Then that whole year of silence was a gnawing agony for me.’
‘But you’ve made him unhappy too. All during that year, and during the trip to Europe, he sensed there was something there.’
This was a revelation to me. I did not realize fully that the war between him and me had been waged for a year and a half.
Perhaps I should have read the danger signal when he told Margaret Case that he had made a great mistake in ever letting Greta meet me again, and said: ‘I can do him great harm.’
Greta continued: ‘If it were to come to a showdown now it would be too bad, but if you like to wait, who knows what might happen? Some day, perhaps, round some corner...? But it’s no good forcing any decision, and you mustn’t come to Hollywood,’ she sighed.
‘What’s to prevent me if I come on legitimate business? If I come to discuss plans with Hitchcock?’
She gave me a wink. ‘Then I couldn’t prevent you doing that.’ And we both smiled and felt much relieved. Suddenly our spirits revived.
Out next morning on my daily business, I realized I had not made my customary telephone call. Returning after lunch a message read: ‘Mr Thompson telephoned.’ An hour later Mr Thompson called again — a rather sad Mr Thompson, in bed with a hot water bottle and feeling ‘downtrodden’. We talked of the immediate film projects. ‘I wondered if perhaps you might like to come and see me tomorrow, and bring with you photographs of the Empress Elizabeth?’ I complained of being in a rather dreary mood, and said I thought perhaps I might sail back to England with Korda. It was best not to let her know I definitely intended to follow her to Hollywood.
When I rang the bell her door opened two inches and one painted eye appeared. Then, playfully, the door was shut again. Often, coming into a room where I know her to be, she is nowhere; each time she opens her door she secretes herself behind it. Today she had been thinking about her proposed journey to England. What would be the food situation there? Was there still rationing? Could she find fresh butter? And new-baked wholemeal bread? She had many qualms.
We looked at engravings of the Empress Elizabeth and, in her liquid voice with its rich, dark tones and the pristine relish of each separate syllable, Greta made observations about the Empress and her clothes. ‘Look at the line of neck [‘naickke’] — how straight she holds her head back on the shoulders. You see she wears the necklace short; I don’t like them when they hang loose on the chest.’ ‘What is lovely is that wide crown — how chic!’ [‘cheeeacke’] Then she put the book down, and looked into her past in the studios.
‘I never had a hair-stylist — just one girl. We used to do the shapes together; we’d look at pictures and see if they would suit the face. And then I never had anyone to touch my face. I did it myself (I wonder if I’ve forgotten how it should be?) — and no tests, except for lighting — I hate tests. What looks good to the eye looks well on the screen. If a dress doesn’t seem right in life, then the screen isn’t going to make an ugly duckling into a swan. Then I don’t like to work for months on the film before shooting. I don’t want to go to the studio except when I’m necessary; I’m not one who must be performing in front of a camera in order to feel good. I don’t want to be bored, and the only way I can preserve what I’ve got to give the screen is to save my energies for my appearance before the cameras [‘kahrmerrahs’]. There never was a harder worker than I; I never entertained or saw visitors; I never gave any trouble [‘trrahble’]. I was just there waiting for anybody who wanted me. If I were to write my own dialogue, I’d need more time and experience than I have to give to it, but then I’d have to be on the other side of the camera. As it is, I am the one who is in front of it. The others can make their mistakes, but it is I who am being made a fool of. When I’m working I’m not a nuisance to anybody. But I must work in my own way — if I don’t, then I’m sunk. The last film I made was my downfall because I allowed myself to work differently in many ways.’
Then, suddenly, Greta became visibly appalled at the idea of making any more pictures. ‘It never pleased me to act all the time. In fact, I tried to make only one picture every two years so that for months on end I could go to Sweden, or walk in the mountains, and not think about motion pictures.’ The memory of the fifteen years of anguish overwhelmed her. I knew that if she did come to England, and started to work with Korda, there would be difficulties — and I, for one, would be in for a harrowing time. But it would be worth a great deal if one could help her to give a work of art to the world.
Suddenly the telephone bell went through us like a pistol shot. It was my rival. He was sorry, but he would have to take his wife to a first night tonight. I, too, was going to the first night with my friend, Leonora Corbett.[35] ‘Wouldn’t you like to come and sit with me while I have my supper at Mercedes’s?’ This was Greta’s preliminary step in a concerted attempt to make me break my theatre date with Leonora. I laughed. ‘You know it would be impossible to chuck at this late hour. Imagine Leonora’s fury!’ However, on my way to collect Leonora, I did go to see Greta and Mercedes and found them both in a very giggly mood, indulging in cross-banter and double-entendres. By now Greta by every device possible, was trying to force me to stay and have dinner with them in order to be late for Leonora. Greta pretended that she had never seen me before in a dinner jacket — that she did not know I had this, or liked that, etc. She kept winking at me, and indulging in a pantomime of our being comparative strangers.
I left for Leonora and the theatre. During the first act I thought perhaps Greta would now be feeling lonely back in her hotel rooms, so in the first interval I would telephone. It took some time to find a call box, and when I did I had to wait outside for it was occupied. Why the hell was the occupant in there so long? I nearly banged on the closed door. At last the occupant came out: it was my rival. He had obviously just been telephoning Greta. We made polite conversation about the play, and praised the impeccable charm of Gertie Lawrence. Then I went into the kiosk and, roaring with laughter, put in my nickel. Then more laughter as I explained to her that I had followed ‘the little man’ into the box. She was in good spirits, and, after certain badinage, thanked me for my sweet thought in cal
ling. I wondered if she had said the same to ‘the little man’? But realizing that he hurries to the telephone on every occasion — as is my wont — and that he has probably done this for years, gives me an indication of how dreadfully devoted he must be; he is something serious to have to contend with.
A really tough battle is on.
February, 1948
Reading two biographies of the Empress Elizabeth, I realize how, temperamentally, she and Greta resemble one another in many ways. The Empress and the actress are both abnormally shy and inwardly trembling with nerves. Both invent ways of hiding from the public, travel ‘incognita’, and, when cornered, become like wild deer trying to escape. Both are faddists about diet, and paranoiac about the approach of middle age (the Empress hiding behind her fan, even in the hunting field — Garbo behind her brimmed hat and dark glasses). Both enjoy exaggerating the seriousness of their ailments. Each lives a part of her life in a world of dreams and fantasies; each has her own eccentricities — so baffling to more ordinary people. Both are at their happiest out of doors, enjoying to walk in the rain. Both have a love of the simple and the impromptu, and an overwhelming charm that puts everyone at ease.
Today the second Empress arrived wearing very tatty old clothes, her hair uncombed, her marble face cold. Ill, with a sore throat, I had stayed in bed with a scarf around my neck, but had placed a bottle of iced vodka on the counterpane for my visitor. ‘You look like the King of Sweden,’ she said. ‘Not, I trust, the present King who is eighty or ninety?’ ‘No, the King of Sweden who had a white wig, a taste for everything elegant, and surrounded his court — not with hulking great Swedes — but with French people. Eventually he was assassinated in his box at the opera.’