The Wandering Years (1922-39)

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The Wandering Years (1922-39) Page 12

by Cecil Beaton


  I was interviewed by a tall, rough man named Sieveking. He said, ‘Read!’ Suffering from acute embarrassment, I started to drawl a bit of a short story I’d written. But I had hardly got going before he shouted, ‘Stop!’ I couldn’t think what disaster had occurred. ‘No, I’m afraid it’s no use. Your voice just isn’t any good!’

  ‘Couldn’t you hear me?’

  Yes, Sieveking said he could hear me very well, but mine was a voice that didn’t ‘take’.

  I asked, ‘Does a cold make any difference?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘Well, I have a bad cold.’

  At last Sieveking confessed, ‘It’s no good pretending. With most people I beat about the bush and make false excuses. But if you won’t be grossly insulted, I’ll tell you just what’s wrong.’

  ‘Yes, I’d be interested.’

  ‘Well, when you’re broadcasting you’re talking to the masses — the lower middle-class masses. These people don’t like being talked down to or patronised.’

  What he was trying to say was that I had an over-cultured, up-stage sort of voice! This was a bitter shock to me. I’d always thought I spoke in a less affected way than my friends. No, Sieveking stood firm, I didn’t speak English as it should be spoken. I talked with an Oxford accent.

  ‘Surely not! I went to Cambridge.’

  Sieveking then gave me an imitation of my voice. It sounded so exaggeratedly high-class as to make me almost sick! Why, I talked just like the silly ass in musical comedy — the nut with spats, large buttonhole and eyeglass! I felt annoyed, but flattered that the man had told me the truth. I said I could easily get rid of my faults if I practised, and would come again when my cold was better. I’d try to talk to the masses in a straightforward way.

  I came home and ate worms. Hell and damn!

  June 18th

  Spent the morning at the office retouching the prints of Billie Williams. Mr Skinner and Miss Robertson became excited. ‘Why, you shouldn’t be here wasting time! You should be making “big cash”! Oh, it’s a sin for your father to send you here!’

  We then debated how much I should charge for the photographs. I thought they had roughly cost me about seven shillings and that I couldn’t charge Billie more than three pounds. But when I worked out a more exact estimate in terms of light, time, materials, etc., I found the work cost me nearly twenty-five shillings. I was amazed. As a matter of fact, I think I could make ‘cash’, if only I had the money to start in a fairly respectable way. But with one pound a week, I can only joke about my wages.

  Peggy[39] rang me at the office, suggesting lunch at the Eiffel Tower. I had to say, ‘Bring lots of money, as I haven’t any at all.’

  Magda Joicey joined us. We drank too many cocktails, I laughed about my plight. A dish of kidneys arrived, all mucked up in a rich sauce. I do like the Tower: it is such a gourmand’s paradise.

  Afterwards, I bought Peggy and Magda some caramel rock from that cheap Canadian candy shop.

  MRS SALISBURY’S PREDICTIONS

  July, undated

  Directly after Miss Robertson had thrown the tea dregs into the fire, I said, ‘I wonder if you could not spare my valuable services for the rest of the day?’

  They did. I had made an appointment with Mrs Salisbury, the clairvoyant. I found her in her house off the Fulham Road.

  To my surprise, Mrs S. was neither weird nor eccentric looking. She eschews pretence, wears no headband of scarlet silk, and does not hang her room with pseudo-Egyptian drapery or rubbish from the Chinese Emporium in Oxford Street. As a matter of fact, both she and her environment seemed much more impressive for being completely natural. Yet she communicated a subtle personality behind the frail, nervy exterior.

  I began to snicker when, straight off, she started by looking at my hand. But soon the laugh subsided in amazement. This woman knew nothing about me; she must indeed be clairvoyant. ‘You are very sensitive. You have a great deal of confidence in yourself but lack the American push. You’re artistic, fastidious, delicate. And I think you possess much more resistance than people imagine.’

  I said this was all true.

  ‘Ah,’ Mrs Salisbury went on, ‘You’ve a great eye for colour and diplomacy.’

  Diplomacy? I didn’t understand that at all!

  Undaunted, Mrs Salisbury took up the crystal and cards. ‘There is dramatic instinct here. I see you going abroad on two separate journeys in the immediate future. At the moment, of course, you’re restless and undecided. But someone will make a suggestion to you. You’ll take it up enthusiastically, you’ll work hard until you are a success. I see you decorating a house, and you’ll definitely do designs for the stage — mostly in America.

  ‘Yes, you’ll be in the public eye, so to speak. You’ll realise your ambitions.’

  I listened willingly. It bucked me up to such an extent, hearing these incredible things.

  Mrs Salisbury assessed me: ‘You’re the mercurial type, and will always look younger than your age.’

  I nodded. In spite of recent haggardness, I don’t nearly look twenty-two.

  ‘You’ll have a lot to do with royalty.’

  This sounded so grand as to be utterly unbelievable. It sobered me up. Indeed, I began to wonder whether anything she said could possibly be true? Where would I get the money to go abroad? I’m poor, my father is poor, and no one is going to leave me a halfpenny.

  Still, I felt soothed to hear Mrs S. talk solely about me all this time, promising an interesting and happy life instead of the drab, unsatisfied existence I’d been leading. It seemed an edifying way to have spent a guinea.

  ETRETAT

  Beginning of August

  I am writing this (strange as it may seem) in the Casino at Etretat. What a miracle, to have got out of my groove for even a week!

  As I sit on the terrace, surrounded by the gabble of hard-faced, smart Frenchwomen, Holborn seems far away. I can hardly remember the cooing of Miss Robertson’s Scottish accent. It has been replaced by nasal grunts and trilling r’s, though I must admit I don’t understand a word these people say. As for talking back, I can only manage: ‘C’est formidable’ and ‘C’est épouvantable’. Mostly I keep my mouth shut, scrutinising the various women. They screw up their noses when they laugh; they bare their teeth viciously and roll their tongues.

  It all happened quite suddenly. I came here to stay with Peggy and her mother, Mrs Dillon,[40] who has rented a villa called La Bicoque for the holidays. I felt rather a dog leaving for the ‘abroad’ on my own. Peggy met me at the station café, helped me through Customs (Monsieur n’a rien a déclarer) and whizzed us through the countryside in her powerful open car. The labourers all shouted as we went past. But then, everyone shouts in France. On the way we noticed a great number of fights: people swearing at one another with demented fury. The next minute they seem to forget everything.

  I reacted like a child. It surprised me to find that the hedges and grass were just the same in France as in England. Even the common fly looked no different. I did notice, however, that there were none of the enormous trees one is accustomed to at home. No large spreading oaks or chestnuts, but a lot of tall, spidery specimens.

  Etretat has thus far been great fun. Everyone seems to have a lover and a high-powered sports car. People lie about taking sun baths in their bathing costumes. I’d always longed to do this, but it is seldom warm enough in England. Now that I had the chance I felt worried at first by the disgusting array of spots round my back and on my arms. Generally I’m spotless. It is disturbing to see spots: they seem to me a complete ‘giveaway’ of a person’s secret immorality.

  Our leisure has been busy. We swim; we go to the Casino for cocktails, dancing and gambling. There’s been a lot of tennis; rather alarming, as the standard of the French is high. But I compete and haven’t made a fool of myself yet.

  Réné Lacoste, the champion, is here. When I first saw him he struck me as repulsive. Now I think him comical, with his long nose, fat li
ps and black eyes. I’d like to make a picture of him looking miserable, with his chin down.

  Today I felt stagnant and not a bit confident. I had a mood on such as I’ve not suffered for ages. I felt numb and was dumb. Peggy’s mother remarked, ‘You’ve become little Pierre Sergine!’

  Peggy laughed, ‘Cecil’s always analysing his feelings.’

  Jack Gold (who joined us yesterday) retorted, ‘If you were like him, wouldn’t you?’

  I couldn’t rally to this backchat, though ordinarily Peggy stimulates me to make funny remarks. The truth, I suppose, is that I was still suffering from last evening’s upset at the Casino...

  Every night we’ve been doing the Charleston. Peggy’s a wild partner — always game for anything. With her dimples and my long legs, I thought we made a winning pair. But gradually I realised that a good many young men took objection to me. I always seem to stir up a certain enmity: in this case, they blamed me for kicking out too much! I caught a rude remark from one of the outsiders, which worried me enough to put me off the Casino for good.

  Generally, those who take exception don’t know me, which makes it all the more exasperating. Perhaps I give the impression of being effeminate and affected. Whatever the reason, that rude remark made me completely miserable. It’s an awful shock to one’s self-esteem to be the recipient of a cruel jibe, just as one is getting on well at a party. What if one’s dance partner heard it? Very likely she didn’t. After all, I’m unusually quick at overhearing what people say. But still...

  Friday, the 13th (naturally!)

  The return home was an awful let-down! It was living death to be by oneself in a shut-up house. Everything looked ugly, including Nurse who was acting as caretaker. Nurse said, ‘Oh, I didn’t expect you back so soon.’ She didn’t seem best pleased.

  I wished that I had stayed on at Etretat. I could have ditched old Mrs Mosscockle and her ridiculous invitation for this weekend.

  There were a lot of letters, all disappointing. ‘The Editor regrets,’ also unwelcome bills and an annoying note from Boy. I had written beseeching him, if worse came to worst and I couldn’t get it from any other source, to lend me the money to go to Venice. Boy’s casual pencilled note made me furious. ‘Sorry, can’t lend you the money as I haven’t got it.’

  I sat down and wrote back a whopping lie, saying that I was now on very good terms with my father and everything would be all right. Then I spent the rest of the morning sorting out suitable photographs for magazines, as I am desperate to get some published. It took an unconscionable time, and there were lots of other things that wanted doing. I put out drawings too, deciding that I would brazenly go down to certain offices and hand in the portfolio myself.

  I set out after lunch, traipsing all the way to the Sketch. I waited in a lobby where several spotty young boys cracked dirty jokes to a slut of a girl. The portfolio was taken from me, then returned five minutes later. ‘They thank you very much, but they are awfully sorry they are full up.’

  Off I went. No more luck at a couple of other places left me defeated. I ought to have gone to see old Miss Robertson and Schmiegelow, but I hadn’t the energy. Instead, I returned home and did up parcels of photographs and drawings which I would send off to the Tatler and other papers.

  MRS MOSSCOCKLE’S HOUSE PARTY

  August 14th

  My father was surprised to see me this morning. He didn’t even know I was home, as I’d gone to bed early last night and he’d come in late. ‘No idea you’d be back so soon. Had a good time? Let me think, it was Etretat you went to, wasn’t it?’ And that was all he asked.

  After breakfast, Daddy said, ‘I’m off to Sandwich for the weekend.’

  I said, ‘Oh, I’d like to join the family there for a few days, after Mrs Mosscockle’s.’

  ‘Right.’ But all the time I knew my father was wondering when, and if, I intended to return to Schmiegelow’s office.

  I wondered what it would be like at Mrs Mosscockle’s. I hardly know the woman, have only seen her casually at parties. She is always laughed at; I laugh at her improbable married name and her whimsical maiden one — she was born Rita Sparrow. She married a man old enough to be her father, lived modestly with him in some meagre square in Kensington. When old Mosscockle died, his will revealed that he’d been a millionaire. The great wealth was left entirely to Rita née Sparrow, who promptly took a suite at the Berkeley while deciding where to live and how to spend the money. She plumped for Hertford Street, Clewer Park, Windsor and dogs.

  Today, Rita Mosscockle must be pushing eighty. She looks like a macabre travesty of Queen Alexandra. In fact, some Eton boys actually think Rita is a reincarnation of the Rose Queen and, to her great delight, they take off their hats when she drives through Windsor in her carriage.

  As I took the train to Windsor and taxied to Clewer Park, I wondered why I had accepted a weekend invitation which might result in deadly boredom. It was my penchant for the grotesque that made Mrs M. fascinating to me. But to stay in her house seemed rather a risk!

  From the gates, the long, impressive drive led to what I had more or less guessed — an enormous early Victorian house of startling red brick.

  An antique butler answered the bell. Huge and fat as a bulging baby in his grimy clothes, he might have been Mr Pickwick. I was shown into the presence chamber, where my hostess sat bolt upright in a vast drawing-room, all white and gold, with crimson brocade hangings and a thousand knick-knacks.

  Mrs Mosscockle’s cheeks were daubed with pillar-box gashes. Perched atop her marmalade wig was a funny little white hat, like a timbale selectly trimmed with lace, tiny rosebuds and forget-me-nots. Crowning this confection, a moth-eaten aigrette quivered. Her dress was cream shantung, sentimentally sprinkled with pearls, diamonds and turquoises. Champagne-coloured tulle had been wrapped round a drain-pipe neck. Sad dog’s eyes peered out resignedly from circles of sooty maquillage. Poor little hag, what an effigy!

  We sat round having delicate afternoon tea in delicate cups and saucers. I stuffed myself with plain Victorian cakes and scones, while Mrs Mosscockle gibbered away like a mechanical marmoset. Her face, during this stream of formal conversational remarks, remained immobile so as not to crack or wrinkle. She never moved her upper lip.

  A Mr Pelion-Smith had arrived five minutes before me. As he was about forty-five years old, Mrs Mosscockle directed her chatter more towards him. The man somehow reminded me of a nasty bit of raw meat.

  Mrs Mosscockle said, ‘I’m sorry the car couldn’t meet you at the station. But Princess Marie Louise, who is staying here, wanted to pay some calls and she had to have it.’

  A rather ordinary but cultured young secretary came in; Miss Wilberforce looked pale and aquiline; she spoke in a metallic voice that indicated she was well-bred but poor. Mrs M. prompted her to show us the garden. We trailed outdoors to admire the well-kept lawns, specimen trees and monkey puzzles. The herbaceous borders were a blaze of antirrhinums, gladioli and geraniums.

  Miss Wilberforce effectively hid whatever she thought or felt behind an expression as completely dead as her voice. But I liked her none the less, and felt that I should be able to get at her,

  I studied Mr Pelion-Smith more carefully. He wore a blue suit, genteel and badly cut. His new black shoes had dull leather, rounded toes and carefully tied laces. His head had been shaved almost like a convict’s. He smoked gaspers one after another, putting his hands in his pockets and talking with the cigarette wobbling away on the edge of his lips. He talked in a breathless, sing-song way. ‘Yes’ was ‘yais’ with a sort of bend in the middle, as though he were a nursemaid talking encouragingly to a child.

  Soon Miss Wilberforce spilled the beans: the Princess staying here was not our good royal Marie Louise, but a Bourbon Princess Marie Louise, Duchess of Seville. The Duchess appeared, a sallow little dumpling in black stockinette with jet beads around her neck. She spoke with a clipped accent.

  Another visitor arrived, a worldly, white-haired man named Mr
Algernon Bowing-Levey.

  Mrs Mosscockle discussed pedigree with me. Mr Bowing-Levey, now, was of a very good family; Mr Pelion-Smith, too, came of the Smith-Clarendon clan. And, of course, Miss Wilberforce had good antecedents: Mrs Mosscockle herself was connected with that family. No doubt I could trace a respectable lineage, too.

  On a more complete tour of inspection, we now visited the glass houses, saw the pheasant in a cage, then went to the kennels. Here were an astonishing number of Japanese dogs — some silky white, others black, all long-haired, panting, goggle-eyed and looking very decorative. Eight yappers occupied one room, while six more barked away in another. The kennel maid looked like a fat old pet herself. In still another small room we came upon ten additional black and white dogs!

  Mrs Mosscockle adores her darlings, and intimately knows all twenty-four of them. Coming of good families, they have taken many kennel prizes!

  We left the kennels and walked across the lawns. Eleven white blobs of silk rushed panting and waggling round our diminutive hag hostess. Pansy-faced and bizarre in her antiquated clothes, she staggered gingerly on delicate feet.

  Our destination was the dogs’ cemetery in a corner of the garden. With tears in her eyes, Mrs Mosscockle said, ‘This is a sad spot for me. I come here to throw flowers on their graves.’ We gazed down at a score of miniature mounds with Lilliputian headstones. The inscriptions on the tombstones (I came later with a pencil and copied them down) commemorated gone-but-not-forgotten household friends. ‘In fondest memory of Champion General Kuroki of Mayfair. The beloved and faithful little friend of Mrs Mosscockle. Died November 6th 1913’. ‘In loving memory of dear Fushimi and dear Yum-Yum, passed away 1916. Much beloved by Mrs Mosscockle.’ ‘Darling little Tartar, fondly loved by Mrs Mosscockle, June 21st 1909. Also in memory of dear old Ruby, my friend for over twelve years. Died December 1st 1911.’ Other Mikado names included Mimosa, Mizu, Yoko, Shu-Shu and, oddly enough, Dot.

 

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