The Parting Years (1963-74)

by Cecil Beaton

  NEW YEAR’S EVE: MOUTON

  December 1970

  At Mouton where Pauline and Philippe de Rothschild live and grow grapes, they have converted their farm buildings into magnificent rooms furnished with Renaissance sculptures, Venetian chairs, baroque statues, and a marvellous collection of books and modern works of art. Apart from this they have gathered together an extraordinary collection of precious objects, all connected with the grape and the enjoyment of wine: goblets, Roman figures and bottles, Venetian glass, still-life paintings, old silver, and early tapestries representing the processing of wine, all placed and lit with originality.

  There are plans for a new façade, a reservoir, a swimming pool, and always additions that are imaginative and a great improvement to the general beauty. It has become a little principality on its own.

  Then, suddenly, permission is given to an oil company to build a whole community of factories and oil refineries with all the attendant chimneys and outbuildings. The site chosen is in the centre of one of the greatest vineyards of France. On the horizon of this green-blue sea of vines which dates back to the year 300, there can now be seen, day and night, a vast flame volcanoing from a tall pipe that pierces the sky and belches forth a long plume of black smoke. When the wind is in an easterly direction, the stench is enough to make one wonder if there is not, any minute, to be an explosion. The tragedy of the Cherry Orchard has been brought up-to-date, and emphasized a thousand-fold, for these vineyards should be the pride of France and are part of the national heritage. Philippe sits in bed writing a manifesto.

  In England we have had enough snow to make everything white. Here everything was covered with a thick hoar frost. The visual result was quite different, and extraordinarily beautiful. The patchwork of fields was all either pale pea-green in colour or pale greys or buffs. The rivers were a deeper biscuit, while the trees were little puffs of off-whites, greenish, greyish. It was quite unforgettable, and when I was being driven through the country roads to Mouton, the effect of the hoar frost on the tall grasses, the bracken, the oaks, poplars, and pines was of unending contrasts of lace-work.

  The bluish mist was dispersing, and a pale sun appeared to light up the trees which were all the whiter against the dove-grey sky. The vineyards stretching for miles looked like cemeteries from the 1914 war.

  Lunch would be at 2.30 pm — Pauline would not appear until dinner at 9.30 pm. Meanwhile a beautiful, mysterious walk in the pearl-white misty world with the twigs of trees furred, and the ivy leaves edged with crystal. Philippe dressed as a Boyar, threw bread to the ducks in their new domain carved out of a marshland, and then we returned to a table set with papyrus, pine, and every sort of grass by the home florist and her assistant. Moules cooked in rice, commice pears in syrup (orange liqueur) with almonds and the rind of oranges. Then a long awaited, wonderfully luxuriant afternoon sleep.

  The weather by now had worsened. Reports of more snow and disaster and avalanches along the Rhône. Mountélimar cut off. Most of the guests had been here since before Christmas and seemed to know the technique of daily life.

  Having lain in the dark, unable to move, the moment came when I should turn on the lights. In the mirror over the washstand I stared at myself. Generally I pay as little attention to my reflection as possible. There are very few places where I can see myself in my bedroom, either in the country or in London.

  Suddenly I found myself staring at this extraordinary apparition that did not move within the frame of the looking-glass. I was really an alarming sight — wild white hair on end, most of the pate quite bald; chins sagging with a scraggly, tissued neck; pale weak eyes without their former warmth. But this could not be me! It was certainly me at my worst, with the light coming from the ‘wrong’ direction. I turned — that was better; as good as we can hope for. I stood scrutinizing myself carefully. The upper lip has become longer. The mouth a thin, bitter line. The eyes tragic, old and wild, and of a great sadness. Were there no redeeming features? No. Even my complexion has suddenly become covered with large brown spots, toadlike freckles that were not there six months ago! Surely those on my forehead had appeared only in the last week? I stood in a trance of horror. How could I make the effort to dress myself up in picturesque clothes and try to be attractive to a group of highly critical people? And yet that is just what I had to do.

  Pauline has the oriental genius for elimination and simplification. She does not clutter her life, and here, since her illness, she seems to have made it even more full of interests while remaining aloof from so much. She seems to have less interest in self-adornment, and just as at one period in her life, when she had the same wonderful chicken dish for dinner every night of a New York winter, now day after day she wears only a succession of dark jackets with tight, Indian man’s trousers in beige of leather or voile. It is a perfect uniform. She has no need for or interest in ringing the changes.

  The room where we dine is sometimes the grand salon; it may be the library, or across the Roangi raked gravel path at Petit Mouton. The huge, long-stemmed carafes with the napkins tied round their necks have been prepared by the chief of the ‘cave’ and are served with interest and deference by Dupont, the butler. Philippe with great ebullience calls everybody’s attention to a certain wine. There is plenty of good talk. Monroe Wheeler is a fount of information. Would one call him a busybody? Yes, if he weren’t so essentially a kindly character. Glenway Westcott never forgets a name, and knows everything that has happened in the literary world in America for the last fifty years: Stephen Spender is roughly the equivalent in England. Raymond Mortimer is quiet and wise, and is his best, as most of us are, when talking à deux without fear of interruption. Francis Watson is a delight, particularly when telling some narrative that is full of shocks and surprises. Two Frenchmen are highly civilized, extremely well-read and informed on all matters of contemporary interest, as indeed they should be being publisher and editor.

  Replete with wine, talk, and cigar smoke, I come to my fine linen cocoon of a bed with the knowledge that I am going to have no difficulty in sleeping throughout the long hours, though I cannot expect that the sleep will not be full of interesting dreams. Sometimes I am returning to certain situations that I do not enjoy in life. I am trying hard to empty a tiny attic and staircase with all the litter which gives one claustrophobia. Friends and helpers are not enough to clear away the horrific accumulations. Or I dream regretfully of not having been appreciative enough of Juliet Duff and her good taste. I dream, as does Stephen Spender, a lot of Peter Watson who it seems has haunted more people than most of his generation. Then comes that sensation when one does not quite know if one is dreaming or merely directing one’s thoughts along certain channels in which one wants to go. This is very pleasant.

  Part VI: South American Idyll, 1971

  BRAZIL

  The Carnival at Rio: February 21st

  Grey skies, heavy heat. The chauffeur an hour late. My upset stomach not improved, a bad beginning to the day; but I was happy to have the company of Julio Senna. The carnival processions started in the early afternoon, and from a stand where workmen were still banging and sawing, we had difficulty in finding our places. Thousands of dancers, old and young, sauntered their way down the main thoroughfare wearing red and white dresses of all descriptions. There was no knowing why they were dressed as Creoles, or Carmen Mirandas, or Louis XIV courtiers. Music was relayed from dozens of loudspeakers.

  Suddenly in one group a particular dancer was stricken with an attack of sheer madness and improvised a little marvel of energetic frenzy, eyes lost to the world as his feet became stars. A huge old lady wobbled in a dozen layers of fat. These ‘schools’ of Samba have assembled from many different neighbourhoods throughout the country, and after preparations that have absorbed them for most of the year, have made their way, many of them from long distances, to the main arteries of the city. Strenuous dancing lasts for many hours over several days. Feelings of theatrical rivalry are very strong. Everyone is a
vedette in his or her own light, and sometimes the jealousies burst out in terrific anger. A year ago a man in one of the ‘schools’ murdered a rival. Some friends of the deceased threatened their revenge. He would be shot at the time of the next carnival. Sure enough yesterday, while he was putting out all the shoes to be worn in his ‘school’, and mindless of the warning, he was shot dead. The body was buried and the show went on.

  The social significance of the festivities is quite remarkable. People who are normally poor, who work terribly hard all the year round and have very little to spend will afford money and time to make extremely elaborate costumes that are in themselves the symbol of riches. Cooks, household-servants, nurses, waiters, dress themselves up as princes, princesses, kings and queens.

  The Portuguese patron of a small restaurant, where my host, Walter Moreira Salles, eats, takes part in the carnival every year. He is now over seventy, extremely tall and heavily built; a man with children and grandchildren. Ever since he first came to this country, aged seventeen, he has found the costumes of the Bahian women very beautiful, so every year he goes as a Bahian woman and dances for four days.

  Everyone was happy. Everyone had forgotten their cares. They were being applauded by a great, anonymous public as if they were football stars or movie idols. Thin and fat, short and tall, beautiful and ugly, hare-lipped, squinting, young and old they were all giving everything they had to give; that extra reach of the voice, the little stretch more of the hips, the twinkling of the toes. It was exciting to see so many people having the time of their lives without inhibition. Euphoria ruled the day. Huge fat mamas were parading in silver crinolines; even fatter men wearing trains many yards long, holding hands, sceptres, and waving flags. There were Picasso harlequins and clowns in pink and viridian, and flower girls carrying baskets of violets. Everything was imaginative, spangled, glittering, shining bright; in a tradition that has been evolved over the years.

  Thousands and thousands of dancers passed through the streets, and the music and drums brought the procession to a climax of frenzy. Suddenly the grey skies opened; there had been no rain for six weeks, although it was supposed to be the rainy season, but now it came down in torrents. In a moment the streets were flooded and visibility was nil.

  ARGENTINA

  Buenos Aires: February 26th

  Never before has Miguel Carcano appeared more elegant, more charming-looking in appearance, so witty, amused and amusing than this evening. He is over eighty years old, but seems absolutely in his prime. He has the grand manner and charm that is seldom seen now; in all respects a gentleman who is shocked if others are not gentlemen too. Miguel took the evening in his stride. He introduced us to the leading members of this very rich club which, burnt by Peron in an effort to destroy the flower of Argentine aristocracy, has now been rebuilt at a cost of so many millions that even Miguel was shocked at the unnecessary extravagance. They pointlessly bought a Thomas Lawrence of the Duke of Wellington, and a marble bath.

  February 27th

  The next morning we left for Cordoba to stay at the Carcano ranch in the mountains. Journey done with consummate ease and style. A most happy arrival; a huge station-wagon stacked with provisions to meet us. After the heat of the coast, the air felt particularly fresh, even nippy and the scenery was much less tropical; trees that looked like olives but were not; almonds, poplars and local small-leafed plane trees.

  One was greeted by the lovely sight of apple trees, thick with fruit, growing in long, silvery green grass, and interspersed with fronds of three-foot-long silver pampas grass through which the sun created flashes of light as they bowed in the breeze; scarlet zinnias growing wild. Three green parrots squawked and flew into the branches above. We circled the mountainside and then saw, beautifully placed in a sheltered valley, ‘San Miguel’, the stone estancia that the Carcanos built for themselves forty years ago. The sun cast long shadows over green stretches from the trees planted by Stella and Miguel early on.

  A number of bay-coloured whippets greeted us on arrival at the grey stone steps above the front door through which, a few moments later, Stella appeared, her hands covering her mouth, laughing and crying, ‘It is a miracle! a miracle!’ I was touched and happy. We kissed fervently, and I saw that although she had become old, she had all the charm, authority, and character of before. Stella has had a wonderful life, full of adventure and experience. Born of an important and no doubt rich Argentinian family, she has benefited by the success, so well warranted, of her delightful and brilliant husband. Apart from everything else, they have a gift for friendship and are much loved by many close friends throughout the world.

  Their social success started in the days of Edward, Prince of Wales, when he came to the Argentine. When a fanatic ran up to him on the golf course shouting, ‘Viva el Principe democratico!’ His Royal Highness was very pleased.

  It was when they came to represent their country officially during the war that I got to know them. I was moved when, on the eve of my departure for the Middle East, they gave a lunch party for me (Georgia and Sachie Sitwell were there, I remember) and they wished me bon voyage in champagne (then a rare drink). Here was Stella, seemingly a little smaller, her hair sand-coloured, her skin freckled and a bit wrinkled. But the dark eyes were as full of life and change of mood as ever. It is a fascinating face, for it is the embodiment of all her thoughts; it shows exactly how amused or surprised, hurt or astonished, she is.

  Leaning slightly forward, in the way that older people do, she took me to see the Arcadian view from her garden. Nothing could be more lovely in this clear mountain sunlight. There were riders on horseback, and groups of children picking the harvest of dull red apples. She showed me her extraordinary rock-garden and took me to the wooded copses where there were two or three different streams; I loved the effect of the sun in patches lighting ragged clumps of tall yellow daisies and of hydrangeas of all colours. Then a tour of the house, just what I had hoped for. A wonderful shabbiness pervaded everything. There was no attempt at spruceness. Carpets were allowed to become threadbare, and yet there was very beautiful silver in the panelled dining-room; English and French furniture in the bedrooms, splendid equestrian pictures, and Chinese glass decorations on the walls. The corridors are panelled in a local variety of mahogany or covered in light cottons of Paisley designs; brilliant linens in small bedrooms for beds and walls alike; rows of Victorian ornaments, collections of local grasses in a display of glass bottles; lots of books, albums, snapshots of the family, chairs for the whippets, vast arrangements of flowers. But of all the many crammed-full rooms, the most delightful is Miguel’s library/sitting/work room: gabled ceiling sprouting from high bookshelves, and a vast elegant ladder at hand to scale the greatest heights. The available wall space and the ceiling are upholstered in a huge Philippe de Lascelle design, done, not in silk, but in cream and dark crimson chintz, in which huge raspberries and paeonies play a dramatic part.

  It is really a rare and wonderful room and it makes one smile with contentment. It is here that Miguel writes his histories that have given him such a distinguished position in the literature of his country.

  February 28th

  Slept so deeply that it was almost like having to switch off a very powerful machine before surfacing. It was very late when I was able to obey instructions to ring twice and wait for an original and delightful breakfast; yoghourt like junket, honey, a dark red apple. Everyone complaining about the unaccustomed cold. There had been a frost in the night! This for midsummer is extraordinary! However, we made our way to the river, to the longed-for bathe in the cascades. It was cold, but I was brought up to face Sheringham in August and this was warm by comparison and beautiful in the extreme.

  The water rushing from the high mountains is said to possess radium heat and is very beneficial to the health. The currents were so strong that at times it was difficult to stand, but if it could be managed one was massaged all over by the force of the water.

  Stella was outspoken, ap
preciative, kind, with a marvellous memory for the amusing things that have happened to her in her varied career; Miguel so utterly persuasive, repeating one’s word if it amused him, and using it in his own sentence and chuckling.

  Finding among the rocks a variety of different ferns, he suddenly discovers a wild verbena of a tremendously brilliant scarlet. ‘Look at the colour — what colour! Colour!’ His sympathy and empathy are not at all feigned.

  We continued to lie on the huge slabs of sun-warmed grey rock while the gushing torrents gave one a feeling of relaxation and serenity. Appetites were good for an excellent and unusual lunch. A long siesta, then a late appearance at the family tea-table.

  Returned from the rocks to find the Martinez de Hoz party had already arrived for lunch. The long-awaited moment when I should set eyes on this great beauty again after five years was at hand. After the initial shock, I realized that her allure and charm and natural gaiety were undiminished.

  Here she was in her new guise, with the delicate hands of a peasant who does weaving or sculpting with clay; the eyes wistful and questing; the voice deep and the laugh full of bubble and fun; the legs shapely but surprisingly solid. Before the war, Madame de Hoz was universally acclaimed; crowds at the races cheered her as she made her way to the paddock. Once Bébé Bérard, on seeing her arrive at a ball, rushed up and kissed the hem of her gown!

  It is an interesting story: the fabulously beautiful girl who married Senor Martinez de Hoz, an important horse-breeder, and became the best-dressed woman in Paris. Dulce de Hoz’s jewels were so heavy and numerous that during the war when the two escaped via Biarritz, the Germans thought they were carrying the contents of Van Clef, arrested them and confiscated the jewels. Miguel Carcano, who was his country’s ambassador to France, got them out and made such a fuss that the German ambassador in Buenos Aires arranged for the jewels to be given back. The Carcanos even got compensation for their marvellous racehorses which the Germans had eaten. In fact the Carcanos played a great part in the subsequent lives of their friends, for it was after staying with them in Biarritz that Dulce de Hoz and her husband came to stay at San Miguel and from here decided to build and settle on a neighbouring mountain.