The Happy Years (1944-48)
Page 29
Maybe I was in a truculent mood, but I wanted to know just at what point the Press became so exasperating to her. ‘Would it not save you a lot of trouble, whenever you take a trip abroad, if instead of running with them in hot pursuit you posed for one picture?’
‘They are never satisfied: they will never let you go. Besides, one gets mad with them.’ Greta branched off: ‘You’ve no idea of the power of the Press! You can have no privacy at all unless you lock yourself in your backyard, and even there you’re not safe.’ Once, on a visit to New York, she said, a columnist had bribed a maid in her hotel, during her absence, to let him into her bedroom in order to report on anything of interest he could discover. ‘If the editor says: “Go and get that story — or else ...” then the reporters become desperate: they’ll do anything. Those people can wreck your life — look what they did to Lindberg!’
‘But surely some film stars cannot have enough of it? Someone like Lana Turner enjoys it!’
‘Cecil Beaton, how can you say such things! Even Lana Turner comes to a point when she can’t stand it. Suppose she’s in love with a married man, and the rumour floats around. Then the Press gets hold of it, and as she’s on her way to see him, they photograph her.’ Greta became quite exasperated by my stupidity. She considered that I was being flippant — that altogether I was not a very serious-minded person.
‘Oh, you know, it’s only serious people who can afford to be really frivolous,’ I said in a desperate attempt to be Wilde-ean.
Greta considered that I was fortunate in that I had not suffered much in life. I wondered if one can estimate the relative amount of misery that goes into a lifetime? Certainly I have had a comparatively sheltered life. But does that necessarily mean that I have endured less pain than others who have had to face violence and tragedy? Yes — I have known suffering, but I have learnt to live with my troubles. Is it not as well if I give the impression of going through life with wings? Few people want to hear about the plight of others.
When the talk turned towards loneliness, Greta said what a dangerous responsibility it was to become attached to any particular person. Again I disagreed. ‘It’s so cruel when things change,’ she said. ‘When you no longer love someone, and he continues to feel just the same about you.’ I knew to whom she was referring and, wishing to further my own cause, I suggested: ‘But one cannot just resign oneself to negativism and holding back emotions. In any case, you’ve done that too long.’
‘I should be Christ-like and be all things to all men.’
I was determined not to allow her to be her usual evasive self: she must listen to me. Doggedly I expounded on the possibilities of what we could make of a life together. We would add to each other’s interests and activities: we would fire each other’s enthusiasms. On a more prosaic level, the idea that she and I might produce a child, and could have also just those things that others have in the course of their, perhaps rather ordinary, lives, might prove to us to be more fantastic and exciting than anything that had happened. No, she could never undertake the terrifying responsibility of having a child. If she had one, she would ‘behead it’. I was rather shocked at her joke.
In her hallway we lingered: then the elaborate pantomime of the waving from door and window. As I trudged up the steep asphalt drive to my bungalow for the last time I realized that, having done little for the past few months but devote myself to Greta, I would tomorrow be going back to an existence without her. It would be like starting life over again.
DEPARTURE
Monday, March 4th, 1948
Brilliant sun to speed me: a turquoise sky through the orange blossoms. An anxious telephone call from Greta: she could not quite find words. ‘What — what are you doing? Shall I fetch you?’ I hopped into a taxi to my favourite flower-stall and bought her an armful of mixed flowers — all colours — ranunculi, stocks, gardenias, roses, orchids, hyacinths, freesias. I rushed to take them to her. Gertrude said in quite a shocked voice: ‘She takes on the heaviest work!’ Greta was in grey shorts, digging out the last vestiges of the root of the ivy from a deep hole where she intends planting our orange tree. I left the flowers and ran to my room, to return as soon as possible with my baggage. By the time I got back to her, there was only half an hour to spend together before I must leave for the long train-journey to New York.
We sat in the sun, and I felt rather as if I were about to undergo an amputation. I could hear that my voice was very clear and cold. We talked about nothing in particular, and then Greta asked from what station I leave? ‘Los Angeles,’ I answered.
‘Why not go to Pasadena? The train arrives there half an hour later. I’ll motor you there.’
‘No, please — it’ll mean your driving all the way back — an hour’s journey — alone.’
‘That I don’t mind, but I’ve been doing such hard work, and I don’t know if my arms will stand the effort. Look, they’re trembling now.’ She stood up and held her arms out as if a water-diviner, and they trembled violently as if a spring had been discovered.
‘Darling, I’m accustomed to travelling alone.’
‘But it’s so cold and lonely not to have anyone wave goodbye. Why didn’t I think of it before? I want to go to Pasadena.’
Again she stood up and looked down at her quivering arms. On the ground was a huge basketful of root she had hacked away for two or three hours — hard, solid, rocklike. I took the spade and saw how difficult it was even to chip off a small fragment — little wonder her arms felt as if they would drop off. For ten minutes she battled with herself. ‘I want to go to Pasadena, but I’m so indecisive. I don’t know if I can. Are you ever indecisive? I don’t believe you are.’ It would be half-past four by the time she returned here, without having had any lunch. I suggested: ‘Better to make a clean break now. I’ll ask Gertrude to get me a taxi, and go straight to Los Angeles.’ She pouted, and again held onto an invisible steering wheel. ‘But I want to go to Pasadena.’
‘Just take me for a last tour of the garden, and show me what you’re planning to do.’
With arms linked, we walked a few paces, and then a very unexpected thing happened. I was feeling quite matter-of-fact and hard-headed when, suddenly, I realized that there was to be a break from something that had been important to me for a long time. My cheeks became wet. My whole chest shook and quivered convulsively; I was completely jelly-like and incapable of holding back my feelings. It had never struck me quite how much I would mind this parting. I have never felt more sorry for myself, or so much alone. Life held no immediate prospects, and I hated having to carry on with little more than courage and trumped-up confidence. I knew that, in some ways, I had scored a victory over Greta: I knew that I had made her love me. Yet I had failed to give her the strength to act, to have the ability to take a more positive stand with herself. In spite of our closeness, I realized that there was nothing more concrete about our fixture: I had no hold over her. She had for so long designed her life to protect herself — locked up in her walled garden, with ‘the little man’ on duty as Cerberus to keep reality at bay — that even I could get no closer than before. I had won the battle, but the main campaign had been lost. Greta had conquered again by sheer stasis. This, after many victories over frustration, was the crux of my agony.
We clasped one another. Greta looked utterly miserable, but my lack of restraint had given her an incentive to be stoic; yet her face contained a world of sympathy and sadness. She comforted me: ‘You see how difficult and neurotic I am — I’m impossible to get along with.’
‘Oh, no,’ I moaned, ‘I really do want you — I love you so much,’ and once again I trembled like a dog. After a moment I blubbered:
‘It’s just that we’ve had too little time — we’ve tried to crowd so much into these days. But I can compete.’
We stood still on the small patch of lawn, our arms still entwined. ‘I’m ashamed of myself: I shouldn’t let myself go.’ Greta replied: ‘I expect I shall do the same in a few minutes when I
realize that Cecil has gone.’
My sorrow was cut short by Gertrude coming out to announce the arrival of the taxi.
‘Oh, if only I’d thought earlier about going to Pasadena we could have been together another hour!’
I shook hands with Gertrude, and turned to clutch at my beloved once again. My face was hot and red and my eyes swollen, and still a stream poured down each side of my nose. Greta stood, half hiding behind her front door, a timid child with a hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide and full of pity.
I got into the yellow cab, and pulled down one window and waved. The child waved back. The taxi moved forward and turned in a semi-circle. I pulled down the other window and waved. I could hardly see the blurred figure. The driver put his foot down on the accelerator, and we were off.
The driver then started a conversation about his having been to England — he’d fought in England. Did I know Kid Berg? The driver had been a heavy-weight champion of the world himself. He’d retired now, but he’d still got his health — that was the most important thing, wasn’t it?... I did not answer, but he continued. I did not hear what he was saying. It was as well that he did not notice in his mirror that he was in charge of a middle-aged crackpot who was convulsed with sobs.
***
Continue the journey through CECIL BEATON’S DIARIES with The Strenuous Years: 1948-55.
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THE WANDERING YEARS: 1922-39
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THE YEARS BETWEEN: 1939-44
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THE STRENUOUS YEARS: 1948-55
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THE RESTLESS YEARS: 1955-63
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THE PARTING YEARS: 1963-74
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* * *
[1] From the effects of which, a short time later, she died.
[2] A successful Parisian fashion artist and engraver.
[3] A flamboyant theatrical impresario.
[4] Christian Bérard.
[5] Boris Kochno.
[6] Now Lord Baldwin of Bewdley.
[7] A great friend of Cocteau.
[8] The actress, who wore a pink and white striped dress when she visited me in the night-nursery.
[9] From 1919 to the time Tom Curd retired thirty-eight years later, it was estimated that in mileage he had walked sixty thousand miles, the equivalent to more than twice round the world.
[10] There were crowds for the good reason that it was V Day and Churchill went to congratulate the French.
[11] Theatrical brothers who almost monopolized the American theatre at one time.
[12] Expatriate Englishman, patron of the arts, son of Edwardian hostess Mrs Willie James.
[13] Sister of Edward James.
[14] Lismore Castle in Ireland where she lived with her husband, Lord Charles Cavendish.
[15] Carmel Snow, Chief Editor of Harper’s Bazaar.
[16] Another editor of the magazine.
[17] Fashion Editor of Harper’s Bazaar.
[18] I later discovered the origin of her having purloined this phrase. When looking for a house in Hollywood she and a friend had been surprised to find a little old woman who answered the door speaking in an extremely refined manner. Garbo had asked: ‘You are not American, are you?’ to which the little woman proudly gulped: ‘Oh no — English. British Empire.’
[19] Russian painter and great scenic designer.
[20] Messrs Russell and Lewis.
[21] A Hollywood dilettante.
[22] Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh.
[23] An elaborate form of ‘dumb crambo’.
[24] Diana Wynyard.
[25] Rumour proved false.
[26] Robert Heber-Percy, a young friend who disappointed the Berners family relations when it was discovered he had inherited Lord Berners’s house and possessions.
[27] Lord Berners died in 1950.
[28] David Herbert.
[29] Michael Duff.
[30] Mrs Harrison Williams (now Countess Bismarck).
[31] The Princess of Berar with whom I had become friends in Hyderabad during the war.
[32] So named as her face is always powdered white and her clothes are only black.
[33] Princess Paley, married to J. C. Wilson.
[34] The Eagle with Two Heads.
[35] Leonora Corbett, a delightful comedienne and a most witty and entertaining companion, and perhaps one of the last of the grandes cocottes.
[36] Sulka Viertel.
[37] Perhaps this was an allusion to her friendship with John Gilbert.
[38] Sir Charles Mendl, British diplomat, married to Elsie de Wolfe, interior-decorator
[39]George Cukor, film director.
[40] The late Zoe Akins, dramatist and writer of countless film scenarios.
[41] Greta’s manner of referring to a cigarette.
[42] The actress who had made such a success in the Haymarket Theatre London stage production.
[43] George’s photographic work was too realistic to be appreciated by the film studios. He became disillusioned, ill, and died at an early age.
[44] In the company of Leopold Stokowski.