The Happy Years (1944-48)

by Cecil Beaton

  We were shown to a drab little projection room — not at all important but quite private — and the lights went out. The titles were flashed on the screen, the lion roared, the rather schmaltzy orchestra blared Tchaikovsky, and Greta, next to me, lit an Old Gold.

  During the running of the film, Greta would interject: ‘Those were real Russians’ — ‘That’s very well done’ — ‘Those were feathers’ (apropos snowstorm) — ‘A woman’s crowning glory — or is it a fuzz?’ (apropos her hair-do in the ballroom sequence). The telling of the story was done in a straightforward, clear way; the scenes were suitably chosen and full of vigour. The background to the lives of the main characters was well established, so that one realized why the romance was impossible and disaster overtook Anna. Although we have condemned Hollywood for such widespread vulgarization of the classics, this popular epic possessed a great deal of the bare bones of the Tolstoy tragedy, and the superficial shortcomings were merely in the trimmings. Even more than her physical beauty it was Greta’s voice that struck a note of such warmth and humanity: deep and melodious with such tenderness and such strength, with so many varying lights and shades, it comes across the sound track exactly as it is in life. Many of the sentiments expressed might have been made by her any day: the effect was uncanny.

  Greta was pleased how little the picture had dated: she gave Sulka Viertel much credit for getting such authenticity onto the screen. ‘When I read the script it was the first time that I was a little thrilled.’ Carlton Allsop behaved with tact and charm. ‘Mr Mayer would die of delight if he knew you had been to his studio today. You have become his goddess — you’re a living legend.’ ‘Thank you — thank you.’ As we emerged from the little theatre, and the operator saw to whom he had been running the reels, he tottered as if about to fall. Greta, behind her hair, slouched out of the studio, and once back in the car felt relieved and safe. But she had been pleased to see the picture, and delighted that it was something of which she need never be anything but rather proud.

  Saturday

  Grey skies — the first time I had not awoken to brilliant sun in the orange tree outside my window. It was cold and blustery. I wondered what Greta would be doing in her garden. When I went round, Gertrude shook her head and said: ‘She has been doing much heavy work — cutting away the branches to keep warm.’ Greta was now sweeping leaves with a fan-shaped broom. ‘Oh, no other woman would do it!’ She lit her ‘pipe’ and relaxed, but she did not appear to be in a loving mood. This morning we became two professionals discussing her business, her film scripts. Having read The Cherry Orchard, she did not consider Ranevska a suitable role. ‘But aren’t you touched by the pathos, and amused by the absurdity of human nature? There are laughs as well as tears of regret.’ No: she had no enthusiasm for any of it. ‘And its particular theme is so pertinent today.’ ‘No-ow!’ she snapped. I saw the chances of our life together in England were becoming smaller. Oh, hell! What to concoct as a reply to Korda? ‘Let’s leave it another day.’

  As we sheltered, under rugs, on the garden sofa, the front-door bell rang — an unusual event. Soon Gertrude appeared, bearing a novel that Allsop had submitted to Greta as the basis for a possible moving-picture: the book was tied up with orchids and tulle. Greta looked, wonderingly at the orchids: they were pale mauve, fleshy, and with yellow centres. ‘I must say I’ve never seen more beautiful specimens: but what a pity Hollywood has ruined these flowers!’ By the time she had unwired them she was quite exasperated.

  Suddenly the rain came down in twenty-five-cent drops. A scramble to clear up. Everything placed under cover. The rain then stopped. ‘What shall we do? Remain here? Have our lunch trays here?’ I knew Greta frets at being indoors whenever she can be in the fresh air, so we braved the elements swathed in scarves. She told me of how, in the rainy season, she would sit under the garden umbrella, dressed in mackintosh and hat and overcoats galore, wrapped in a tarpaulin rug, having her lunch on a tray while the rain poured cats and dogs around her. After her lunch, she would remain in the torrent with a book, delighted not to be indoors.

  Later, the rain did come down pretty violently, so we decided to go shopping: more fertilizer needed. We also visited a nursery-garden where, in the pouring rain, we walked for miles to choose the much-discussed orange tree. Greta enjoyed pottering in the downpour, but the rain became tropical and the gardeners thought us mad to be here. Our assistant slipped off a greasy plank and fell headlong into the mud. After more shopping in Beverly we bought tomorrow’s newspaper. ‘It’s to look at, at night, to make me feel I’m in a hurry to go to sleep — otherwise I stay awake. If I could have a nap in the daytime, all my troubles would be over. But ever since I was a child I’ve had difficulty in sleeping. In the old days it didn’t matter much, but now I feel oh, depleted, and I look so pale!’

  We are being very social for we have one engagement each day. This evening we arranged to go to Clifton Webb, the actor and a mutual friend. Long ago, Greta had told me of some man who had said: ‘We’re not getting any younger. Why don’t we go our own ways, but preserve something for our old age by getting married?’ Now I discovered Clifton was the person, but his remark was only made on the spur of the moment, and, on another spur from Greta, dismissed. We felt obligated to see his new house, a rambling bungaloid affair of no originality or interest. Neither he nor his indefatigable octogenarian mother, Mabel, who wore satin pyjamas, spared us a detail of the interior wrought-iron work and pebble-dash walls, hung liberally with signed, glossy, publicity photographs of the film elite.

  I enjoyed listening to Greta’s reactions to Clifton’s tart anecdotes. In some cases I realized she knew a lot about the topic in question, but it suited her to feign ignorance. I noticed how careful she was not to give any information that might be taken in evidence against her. She plays quite a game with her fellow beings.

  Clifton gave a horrifying description of Marian Davies, at the recent public dinner party given to celebrate the ‘somethingth’ anniversary of the gossip-writer Louella Parsons. ‘Crazed by drink’ soon after the soup, Marian was led from the hall. Later Greta said: ‘It would be so much nicer if everyone behaved well and didn’t remark upon these things. If no-one talked, no-one would know — it’s that simple!’

  We returned late for Gertrude’s dinner at the card-table, but Gertrude was not worried. After a meal of veal chops we sprawled on the drawing-room sofa, and talked about much that had to be said before I return to New York, London, and the indefinite future. It is impossible to bind Greta. She is a virtuoso at delaying tactics, shelving decisions and leaving a situation in the air. That Mr Mayer was ever able to make her sign a contract earns him my full admiration. I was not successful this evening.

  As I trailed my weary body home, I wondered if I had made any advance towards an arrangement for a moving picture or a trip to England, and I had to admit to myself that I had not.

  Sunday, March 13th

  When I rang the front-door bell, there was a long delay before it was answered. I was about to explore the garden when she shouted: ‘Beaton?’ and poked her head out of a ground floor window. She had not been able to see if it was I who rang and daren’t open the door to a stranger. We linked arms and went into the garden. A tragedy — the orange tree we bought had thorns! She did not want to plant an orange tree with thorns: she was much perturbed about it. We asked everyone we saw whether oranges do have thorns, and I suspect that she will take back this five-dollar tree and exchange it for another.

  We started to discuss the telegram that I must send in reply to Korda. ‘Put “G.” instead of my name. They even get news here from telegrams, and the gossip columns write “So-and-so is long-distancing so-and-so.” Always be careful, and if anyone asks you anything, just say “I don’t know.” It doesn’t demean you, and it makes it quite simple.’

  In spite of yesterday’s deluge the drought is serious and, in an effort to save water, all clocks had today been advanced an hour. Before one expected it, lunc
htime had arrived. So Greta, delighted at the chance of a delay, suggested: ‘Let’s talk about the telegram after lunch.’

  Being Sunday, we prepared the meal. Greta was less efficient than usual, for she burnt the Matzas, and the tomato soup wasn’t hot enough. After coffee we composed a sad message to Korda, rejecting The Cherry Orchard, and Greta concluded: ‘I know if I don’t do a picture this year, I never will again.’

  ‘But won’t you please come to England in any case? A freighter could take you straight from California to England.’

  ‘I don’t know: I must stay put a bit and rest.’

  That means she will remain within these walls, doing the jobs of a handyman, exercising, gardening, and sunning herself. A happy enough existence, and more or less peaceful, but sad that the world does not benefit by her unique quality. However, she would answer: ‘What is one film more or less?’

  I felt restless. I had long wanted to do a drawing of her, and this was my last opportunity, but she would not remain still for a moment. It would have been good, too, to have some snapshot mementoes of her in the intimacy of her secluded garden, but when I produced my Rolleiflex she put on a discontented pout and I knew the pictures could not be successful. Her hair suddenly became fluffy and messy, and she looked more like a film star than herself. I was appalled to realize how much her appearance sways my affections. I became rather sad. Later, when she went upstairs to dress in ‘mad clothes’ for an outing, and wrapped a shawl around her head, I adored her again and my heart became like pulp.

  Then suddenly she asked: ‘Are your sisters smaller than I am?’ I could not understand her interest, until later when she produced an overcoat which she said she would like to give to one of them, as she knew clothes’ rationing was still in force at home. It is interesting to discover along what subterranean channels her brain works. If one waits patiently, one will solve any mystery; but she will not be precipitated into committing herself until she has made the necessary preparations in her mind.

  We set off in the car to pay two visits. First, to the eccentric, scarlet-haired old Baroness d’Erlanger who, undoubtedly, is one of the most remarkable human beings, now unaccountably living in an ordinary suburban little villa in this tight little community. Since I had first glimpsed her in Venice, in a magenta dressing-gown and painting a pumpkin gold, Catherine became an early supporter of mine, and she has always proved a loyal friend. She helped to bring back to life the frescoed ‘Villa Malcontenta’ on the Brenta; she created an Aladdin’s cave out of a fisherman’s house in Venice. She could be relied upon always to be doing something startling and original in the way of decoration. I felt a glimpse of her might stimulate and entertain Greta, and certainly Catherine would appreciate Garbo’s visit — especially as the film colony here has completely ignored her.

  In her days of grandeur Catherine lived in Byron’s house in Piccadilly, but now her money has been ‘frozen’, and her emeralds stolen from their hiding place (sewn in a cushion) by one of the ‘naughty boys’ she likes to have around her. Greta was, at first, somewhat aghast at the litter, salvaged from the past, of broken Venetian glass and shells, the cluttered mess of eighteenth-century scraps, witchballs, metal fringes and brocades, and the vast collection of Catherine’s own paintings of her friends all looking like waxworks. Whereas Catherine could find delightful rubbish in the markets of Venice, Paris or London, here she must rely upon the stalls onto which the worst Hollywood junk is thrown out of studio ‘prop’ departments. Catherine had ‘lost her eye’, and the mess was interspersed with cans and cartons of patent foods. However, Catherine was delighted with her new home. ‘Come and admire my swimming pool with its walls of “cabuchon emeralds”.’ The ‘cabuchons’ turned out to be beer bottles — thousands of them placed one on top of the other; Catherine saw the effect as beautiful. Two naked young men appeared. ‘These are my Greek gods,’ Catherine said, by way of introduction. She showed us her latest scrapbooks, made of clippings from tawdry magazines, which she intended to sell at vast sums to the research department of Columbia Pictures. Greta responded to Catherine’s enjoyment of her present existence with no regrets for the past or the onslaught of old age.

  After such mess and litter, Greta was impressed by the antiseptic antidote provided by George Platt Lynes’s essentially modern house. Greta appreciated the restraint of having a room that possesses only a table, a chair and a picture. George, a photographer with a pristine talent very much his own, until recently lived in New York in a mossy oasis of green plush, and a Forest of Arden of flowering plants. His emigration here has not yet benefited his work. In fact, his friends are worried lest, as in many other cases, the move from the east to west may not have been a disaster.[43] George, unlike Catherine, did not seem at peace in this new environment, but he was being comforted by the presence of his old friend, Catherine Ann Porter.

  I was pleased to hear Greta asking these friends about me. ‘How long have you known him?’ ‘Where was that — in Venice? In Connecticut?’ When, having met with her usual effortless success, Greta was about to leave and remarked to Catherine Ann Porter that she didn’t know when they’d meet again, Mrs Porter, somewhat surprisingly, replied: ‘Oh, don’t worry — the world is such a small place today.’

  Later, Greta decided it would do us good to walk to our dinner at a spaghetti restaurant. So, in the dusk, down an avenue of royal palms, we strode like Grenadiers. It is unusual for the inhabitants of Beverly Hills to go for a hike, and a pedestrian is likely to be arrested by roving police in cars on suspicion of loitering with intent of theft. However, we were unmolested, and enjoyed being able to see into the lighted windows of the houses each side of the road: in many of them a Sunday cocktail party was in progress. How thankful we were not to be there in any of them!

  At Peppino’s, sitting at a small table in a corner, her face lit from below by a flickering candle, Greta held forth as if we had never before had an opportunity to talk.

  She discussed food and her dislikes and likes. ‘The English know nothing of food. I used to eat quite a large lunch when I was first working in the studio: all sorts of mixed things — a dill-pickle, an apple-tart, pastry, meat — and I felt so heavy and ill. Then I learnt about food and just brought my own — a basket with sour cream and fruit — and I would feel so light and easy. You see, I can’t mix foods — I don’t feel well; I like just one thing.’ It always amuses and sometimes embarrasses me when, at even the best restaurants, Greta takes her knife and fork, looks around nervously to see if the waiter is looking in her direction, then dips them in her tumbler of water before surreptitiously wiping them on her napkin.

  She talked about her youth being unhappy. When I interjected: ‘But you’ve always told me you were such a tomboy, and had so much fun leading the other children into mischief’, she replied: ‘Cecil Beaton, how can you say such things! There are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year!’ She talked of the first time she had seen an animal killed. She was a city child, living in Stockholm, but once, in the country, she saw some men take a knife to a sheep, hit it on its head, cut it open, and pour its blood into a basin. She still could see the scene vividly, and with such horror, although she was only twelve at the time. She had stood there, rooted to the spot, with mouth wide open, incapable of moving, aghast that such things could happen. ‘Oh, how awful life is!’ she kept saying.

  There are things and people she still doesn’t wish to discuss: Maurice Stiller, who was her ‘Pygmalion’, is never mentioned except by implication, or as ‘someone I have great devotion for — and always will’. She continued: ‘But people have so often used me — have hurt me by doing things that have surprised me. I have known crooks and they’ve treated me so brutally, and although I have been shocked I still don’t believe they’re bad. I know there’s good in each person, and it’s quite simple to bring out the best. If the other unimportant people want to harm you, how can they? They haven’t got the power — like the more fortunate of us; the others c
an’t give. We can offer little things that can be of great importance, but none of us are important really. By a miracle we have become privileged people, and we can afford to tell the truth. But if you tell many people the truth they’ll recoil and are shocked, embarrassed or afraid.’ She rambled on: ‘I love life — it’s really thrilling’, and she looked ecstatic. ‘Existence is so full of surprises and vitality and goodness.’

  Greta later said that, in her youth, she was ‘ready very early for life’, but that since then she had not advanced or developed. Suddenly she found herself no longer a promising youngster. She said so sweetly: ‘I can never think of myself as being of advanced years. I don’t feel any different, but it worries me that I don’t know where the years have gone.’ She still behaves, and moves, and thinks like a young girl; and if, on some days, her face is pale and drawn, she always possesses the unspoilt quality of a child, and the passing years have only made her beauty more sensitive and delicate.

  I realized how clumsy it is of me sometimes to force conversation with her, to try and make her be serious when she is not in the mood. The moments of communication come of their own accord. It was following an allusion to her one visit to Italy — to the Villa Cimbrone in Rapallo[44] — that we progressed on to the tricky subject of the Press. For it was here that the reporters hounded her to such an extent that she could never leave the precincts of the villa: even the garden was within range of telescopic lenses. After a few days the ‘English woman’ (whoever she may have been) living next door became exasperated and asked Greta point-blank: ‘And if you hate the Press so much, why did you join the ranks and become a film star?’ Greta was baffled and said: ‘When one enters a new life one does not know where it will lead. One thinks of the magic, not of the disadvantages, and often the magic turns into something quite different.’