The Wandering Years (1922-39)

by Cecil Beaton

  Father was exceptionally compassionate. It made him generous to others when he shunned extravagance for himself. In later years, after business became worse, he gave up even the modest self-indulgence of cigars. Yet never for a moment were charitable subscriptions cancelled. And if Nancy’s or Baba’s wedding entailed an outlay, he paid out of all proportion to what he could afford.

  Often we were unaware of how seriously matters stood, since pride forbade him to confide his troubles. Instead of moaning poverty, he quietly found excuses for dropping his hobbies. Scotland, which he loved, and even the theatre, became extravagances beyond his purse. His clothes became rather shabby.

  The crowning blow was Reggie’s death. Of his sons, Reggie was the favourite. The two understood one another; they were kindred spirits. Indeed, with Reggie gone, life held little meaning for him, in spite of Mummie’s kind and close concern for his cares. The timber business now became totally non-existent. A baffled resignation set in.

  Partly, Daddy’s tragedy stemmed from a staunch rigidity. He had always been slow, methodical. He did not change with the times. As for success, he never mentioned it. I think he even mistrusted it. When I returned from America with incredible stories of the fancy prices my work had begun to fetch, he responded dubiously: ‘It sounds all right, but is it?’

  Looking backwards, I am inclined to think my father was wise. I realise that restless invention and quick-fire creativity leave something to be desired. An uncle at the funeral said, ‘Wull, wull, you’ve lost a good father.’ Good he was. In spite of, or perhaps because of his failures, I respect his life. I respect him for never having taken short cuts; for accepting his luck, both good and bad, with the equanimity of a man. In comparison to him, I feel small.

  HUNGARY

  Late September

  Mum was with Nancy and Hugh at their home in the country. I felt too depressed to stay alone in London in the empty flat. Gladly I accepted David’s[67] suggestion to join him on a motor trip through Hungary and Dalmatia. My spirits rose under his buoyant influence.

  On the way from Austria into Hungary, we stopped for lunch at a little Gasthaus. The radio played relays of Italian opera and German tangos. Then, abruptly, a vast Hungarian gypsy orchestra paved the way to our goal — Budapest. Never has music seemed livelier or more emotional.

  As we sped on, the countryside changed. It became wilder, less like a child’s storybook illustration. Villages seemed Oriental, with low, bold Russian doorways.

  Our approach to Budapest was made more dramatic by a bad skid. I was at the wheel. Unbeknownst to us, the car tyres had been worn treadless. Now, on a hill damp with rain, the wheels started sliding over the surface of the road. I lost control. Worse: I lost my head as well, waiting for the crash while David leaped into the breach, put the car out of gear and twisted the steering wheel. The machine turned in circles, crashed down a tree and ended nose upwards in a ditch.

  By the time we staggered to our beds at dawn, we felt as though we’d already spent a week sightseeing and living in Budapest. Many impressions had been gathered. A letter of introduction provided us with a willing escort, who promptly guided two eager foreigners and showed them every aspect of night life. We ate Hungarian food in enormous quantities including a kind of salmon-trout from Lake Balaton. Gypsy orchestras serenaded us. In the huge inferno-nightclub Arizona, spectacle vyed with spectacle. There were revolving dance floors and a cabaret that went on from ten o’clock until three in the morning. The walls had breathing shells; balconies suddenly shot ceilingwards on the trunk of a palm tree; stars flashed and chorus girls, suspended by their teeth, twirled at the end of ropes. To Miss Arizona, once a beauty and now the singer-wife of the proprietor, were allotted the big ‘production numbers’. Her entrances were spectacular accompanied by every variety of dog, or riding an elephant.

  In the days that followed, we were seldom idle. We swam in swimming baths with artificial waves. In the museums we admired German primitives, Grecos, and pre-Christian gold. We goggled at the architecture of fantastic buildings, including some without antecedent or precedent — the Sunlight Insurance Company’s home, for example. Even the Empire furnishings of the prime minister’s palace seemed good, clean, Ruritanian fun.

  One Sunday we went to a country village to see the peasants in their Sunday-best costumes. Passing fields of sugar cane we came to a wild plain and halted for a religious procession. The Madonna, heavily encrusted within a gold frame, was held aloft by girls in gaudy crinolines and tinsel head-dresses.

  The scene, on arrival at our destination just as church service was ending, was spectacular. A group of fancy-clad people stood in the town square. The colours were startlingly unusual, and of a brilliance to dazzle the eye. But even the most vivid costumes were overpowered by the beauty of the old women in black, who idled gossiping by the church walls.

  The village girls showered us with attention. They ran like so many parakeets in all directions, showing the way to buy this and that, to drink, to dance. We drank; a five-piece orchestra played for us while we ate. Their music was of a melodious sadness and full-hearted yearning. The special flute which is played in this region produces a sound that seems to express the essence of lovelorn emotion. Zither and xylophone added plaintive and percussive variation to the ensemble.

  At twilight, several of the brightly-coloured bird-girls brought us to their home. In the lamplight we joined in the dancing of the Czardas.

  DUBROVNIK

  It is evening. But the heat of the day’s sun is retained by the dove-coloured stone walls of this fortified town. The whole populace comes out to walk up and down in the perfumed, soft air. Eyes are keen for love. Nowhere else are regards so lingering, so impatiently amorous. Groups cluster round the giant telescope, through which the huge stars become even bigger. Cafés are filled, gypsy orchestras play. We sit in the Weinstube drinking white wine and enjoying thin wafers of raw ham.

  Dubrovnik is like a rural Venice, replete with delicately chiselled carvings on cornice, lintel and balustrade, with its own Doge’s Palace, domed cathedral and flocks of pigeons. Unlike Venice, it has trees. Unlike Venice, it has been built upon high rocks, with a spectacular mountain back-drop adding intimacy.

  From the moment of entering Dubrovnik’s high medieval walls, repaired by Viollet le Duc, we fell under the spell of this curious town, comprising a jumble of architecture of so many periods. Here, far from his home, a medieval statue of Knight Roland stands against a floreated church that might be part of baroque Oxford. The market square, bright with vegetables and fruit, is mainly of the seventeenth century; though an eighteenth-century poet sculpted in the nineteenth century presides behind green railings, a pigeon perched on his curled wig.

  There is no end to sightseeing. The town may be circled from the summit of its stone walls. Dominican and Franciscan monasteries rival each other in delicacy of carved detail. Here can be found the oldest apothecary in the world, with Aesculapius in stone among his vessels and books.

  Rome has its fountains; Dubrovnik has its fountains, also many churches with, alas, exteriors more impressive than interiors. Similarly, the houses of a decadent nobility still belong in the family, but only a shell remains. Furniture was ransomed for ready money, chairs sold to pay for a new ball dress. Now all that is left are gold-engraved glasses from which we receive the hospitality of local red wine. Out in the garden, columns and cypresses have become overgrown. But the view remains unspoilt, with the mountains cyclamen-coloured in the late afternoon. And at sunset, the Adriatic undergoes a sea-change, turning from brilliant blue to yellow and pink.

  Dubrovnik’s people wear simple costumes of beautiful form, the women with head-dresses immaculately white. Waists are small, skirts voluminous. The men wear Turkish trousers with embroidered waistcoats and fezzes. A few prefer curious caps which look like half a huge eggshell; German tourists delight to wear them.

  The local citizens are happily uncurious. They never stare at visitors, however
strange their appearance. Vague and unmindful, Dubrovnik’s populace is apt not to look twice at Queen Marie of Roumania wearing a motor helmet and driving through a cloud of pigeons.

  For so small a place, Dubrovnik seems rich in rare personalities. The poverty-stricken nobility and others provide some great characters; like Miranda da Gozzi who has never left the confines of its walls, yet speaks several languages and knows much of outside affairs. Many of the townspeople show evidence of an antique past. The male prostitute looks like a Roman senator. The lame tailor comes alive from a fifth-century Greek carving. The Moslem who proffers ikons and brocades in an Oriental parlour looks as though he had been installed there since the time of Darius.

  Part XVII: Royal Romance, 1933 and 1936

  MRS SIMPSON

  Autumn 1935

  Though nothing about Mrs Simpson appears in the English papers, her name seems never to be off people’s lips. For those who enjoy gossip she is a particular treat. The sound of her name implies secrecy, royalty, and being in-the-know. As a topic she has become a mania, so much so that her name is banned in many houses to allow breathing space for other topics.

  Five years ago I met Mrs Simpson in a box with some Americans at the Three Arts Club Ball. Present were Thelma Furness, her sister, Mrs Gloria Vanderbilt, and a lot of other people. Mrs Simpson was introduced as being a vague relation to me by marriage; her husband, Ernest Simpson, being the brother of Mrs Smiley.[68] Mrs Simpson seemed somewhat brawny and raw-boned in her sapphire-blue velvet. Her voice had a high nasal twang.

  About a year ago, I had an opportunity to renew acquaintance with Mrs Simpson. I liked her immensely. I found her bright and witty, improved in looks and chic.

  Today she is sought after as the probable wife of the King. Even the old Edwardians receive her, if she happens to be free to accept their invitations. American newspapers have already announced the engagement, and in the highest court circles there is great consternation. It is said that Queen Mary weeps continuously.

  I am taking bets that the marriage will not happen this year.

  Now I was to photograph her. Mrs Simpson was punctual, arriving at my studio rather shyly (although she has acquired considerable assurance since the recent developments).

  She had scarcely arrived when the telephone rang for her. It seems that incessant callers make demands upon her all the time. ‘Will you lunch?’ ‘May I come in for a cocktail?’ To accept all this lionising requires careful arranging, which she manages well. She has learned how to keep people at a distance: ‘Wait till I get home and look at my book.’ ‘My secretary will give you a ring in the morning.’ Her voice seemed quieter.

  Our photographic sitting was not particularly eventful, except that I found it difficult to avoid making remarks which might be miscontrued. For instance, as background I suggested scrolls of ermine pinned on a white cloth. She immediately responded with, ‘Don’t do anything connected with the Coronation for me. I want none of that now.’ And again, when I asked her to lower her chin ‘as though bowing’, the unfortunate simile caused her to look sharply at me.

  Whatever fantastic changes have taken place in Mrs Simpson’s life, she has obviously suffered. There is a sad look to be seen in her eyes. The camera was not blind to this. We worked well together for a long time, and made a date so that I could do some drawings.

  Two afternoons later, I went to her house in Regent’s Park, bringing my sketching paraphernalia and the proofs of the recent photographs. There was a policeman at the end of the road; but then, there generally is in most London streets. The house has been rented furnished, but has a few temporary additions by Syrie Maugham, and Mrs Spry contributes her arrangements of expensive flowers mixed with bark and local weeds. This day Mrs Simpson looked immaculate, soignée and fresh as a young girl. Her skin was as bright and smooth as the inside of a shell, her hair so sleek she might have been Chinese.

  The afternoon was successful, in spite of the fact that none of my sketches quite came off. Mrs Simpson proved an exceptionally difficult woman to draw. I found nothing facile to catch hold of and soon discovered that even the slightest impression was devilishly difficult. Still, we had a lot of fun, discussing London and various personalities we knew in common.

  She spoke amusingly, in staccato sentences punctuated by explosive bursts of laughter that lit up her face with great gaiety and made her eyebrows look attractively surprised.

  I worked while she talked. Mrs Simpson glanced about the pale white and olive green drawing-room. ‘I would do more with this place if I were staying here longer. But I’ve only got it for such a short time more.’

  Suddenly I asked, ‘Where will you go for the Coronation? A flat again?’

  ‘A flat is much easier to run,’ she considered. ‘This is so far away. I’d like Claridge’s, but there is the disadvantage of public exits.’

  I said, ‘But in any case, wherever you are, I should think there’ll be crowds of Americans waiting outside for a look-see. That is, if I know anything from my American papers.’ Then I hazarded, ‘Do you realise how much people talk about you? Do you know that as a topic I have banned you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  From that moment onwards, there was practically nothing we did not discuss. She said, ‘After this, I think I must call you Cecil. And I don’t want you to call me by that name of Mrs Simpson, which the American yellow press has made me loathe.’

  Yes, her private life had been taken away from her. People stared and hung about all the time. The King minded greatly for her sake. And what absolute nonsense all this was about marriage. How could English people be so silly? They hadn’t gossiped before the American newspapers got hold of it. There was no question of marriage.

  I said, ‘I’ve made bets against it. But maybe you’ll ruin me.’

  She replied, ‘No. I expect I’ll be very poor and you’ll clean up.’

  We then discussed the possibility of my photographing the King. Wallis said, ‘You mustn’t put any background in, he’d hate it.’ At which the door opened and the butler announced, ‘His Majesty.’

  Wallis gave a caw of surprise. ‘Oh sirrr,’ she drawled, ‘we were just talking about you. Oh, you’ve got what the Daily Express calls your coif today, sirr.’

  The King, in bright spirits and not nervous at all, laughed and examined my photographic proofs laid out on the sofa. Quickly he gave his definite opinion as to which were good and which were not.

  Jokes and laughter ensued. ‘I like this,’ the King commented; ‘that one, too. In fact, all these are good. I want the lot.’

  ‘Oh, sir, wouldn’t that be too much of a Wallis collection?’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ And we all laughed.

  ‘No, I don’t think Cecil likes this one, sir. It’s hard, like granite.’

  His Majesty repeated several times, ‘Funny kind of granite.’

  ‘Now, sir, won’t you sit down and have a drink? Let Cecil do a quick drawing of your profile.’

  In a trice the King, holding a whisky and soda, was sitting en profile and talking of the events of the day as reported in the Evening News — the Spanish revolution, unemployment in South Wales, Mr Ernest Brown’s incessant quotations from the Bible.

  The King has an enormous store of general knowledge. He never forgets names, remembers statistics. He knows, too, the average man’s tastes and inclinations, is himself a kind of average man par excellence. He will be a very popular King, as one instinctively respects him.

  Quips and sallies were rather broad. The King observed that Ataturk must have taken his title as President of Turkey from the American ‘Attaboy’. But, however trite his humour, he betrayed no interest in gossip or personalities.

  We were shown the snapshots of the Nahlin cruise along the Dalmatian coast, with both the King and Wallis wearing shorts. ‘That’s sweet, isn’t it? That’s Corcula or however you pronounce it. And that’s when we came ashore in Turkey. We weren’t announced, but they all came down to greet us. Do you
remember it? It was swell.’

  Into this atmosphere came Wallis’ aunt, lately arrived in England. She added to the general wisecracking, relating the story of her boat trip (during which, as Wallis had earlier told me, she listened to people talking about the pros and cons of the King’s possible marriage to her niece).

  A silver tray was brought in. On it were eight different varieties of hot hors d’oeuvres, also green grapes stuffed with cream cheese. The King talked very fast, darted around the room, rang bells, busily untied parcels with red, slightly horny hands that looked surprisingly like a mechanic’s. He had a bad cold and wore a heavy silk jersey. Wallis’ eyes sparkled; her brows lifted in mock-pain; her mouth turned down at the corners as she laughed. The aunt sat back quipping.

  At last the King (like a child whose before-dinner play hour had come to an end) was told that we must all go. Wallis, who had only a few minutes to dress for Emerald Cunard’s dinner, was already beginning to unbutton her dress.

  Winter, New York

  I watched and listened to old Mrs Vanderbilt, the Queen of New York. Towards the end of lunch she told me how upset she was about the King’s abdication. First, she produced a small bag. Then, from inside, she whisked the wherewithal to make her nose clown-white. Ridiculously, she began covering her entire face with ugly blobs of powder. The chin received another heavy patch. During the story-telling, by dint of gradual smoothing away, a natural face slowly appeared from under its heavy coating. ‘Oh, I can’t tell you how I have suffered! I can’t tell you what that family means to me. I was the first person to be received by the late King after his illness. I was summoned to tea with Their Majesties and we talked and talked and talked. I kept waiting to be dismissed. But no, we talked until I began to get a little faint. My head drooped; I said, “Ma’am, am I not keeping you? Must I not go?” And the Queen said, “Oh no, if you have to go that is different, but if you can, please stay.” And do you know, I had arrived at the Palace at five o’clock and by the time I left it was — six o’clock. Oh, they’ve been so wonderful to me. I could lay down my life for that family.’