by Cecil Beaton
In the first interval, just as I was about to escort Suzy Parker to have a drink in the Opera Club, I was approached by John Guttman and Bob Herman. ‘Do you want the show to go on? Unless you make a public apology to the female chorus, there will be a strike. The Union will close the show!’ I was frogmarched backstage. I felt what it was like to be handcuffed and taken off in the Black Maria. I was hurried to the dressing room in which forty angry, half-naked women were changing. A little ‘Minnie Mouse’ was sitting mopping tears with Kleenex papers rolled into a ball. She wore Chinese make-up and a dressing-gown.
‘I’ve come to apologise for what I did. I didn’t know I was capable of behaving so badly. It was inexcusable and I can only say in my defence that we’ve been working so hard for three months to get the blues just right and to see this orange figure was just too much. But I should never have lost control and I’m extremely sorry. Please shake hands to show you have forgiven me.’ The little woman never spoke a word — shook my hand and dabbed away another tear.
Then an angry woman from the chorus said: ‘And, another thing, these sandals are all coming apart.’ The day was won — Guttman took control of her. We fitted out Minnie Mouse in blue for the last act and, terrified, I returned to the appalled Suzy. For one hour I was alternately overcome by remorse and laughter.
The orange woman had ruined my first night. But despite this I gradually realised what a success the evening had been for me as well as for all concerned. The after-party at Nin Ryan’s was unique in that it needed no build-up — all the guests arrived in a state of elation. Noel Coward was adulatory and made a very funny remark about Corelli who is known in Italy as the man of the golden legs. ‘Well, I wish he’d shown us his fleece.’ Adlai Stevenson said, on hearing of my backstage exploits: ‘I’ve known people get worked up about a word or a phrase. I did not know that one colour could be of such importance!’
Rudolf Bing became human, all shyness disappeared. He roared with laughter about the orange skirt: ‘I can’t imagine this calm, collected Britisher, this photographer of the Royal Family …’
GRETA
I called her. ‘Well, well! I was just thinking about you yesterday. Wondered where Beet would be. Well I couldn’t come to lunch. I’m not very well, but don’t let’s go into that now.’
Nevertheless we did lunch. Greta was in navy blue, a dark chiffon handkerchief on her head. She was smiling compassionately and sadly, and wore an expression of sweetness and childishness. Hers has a quality that no other New York face has.
I am a swine not to unbend completely, not to dissolve into tears; but I cannot. She has hurt me a lot in the past, and I’m resentful of the continued waste, the continued regrets, the lost opportunities sighed over and the new ones never faced.
It is sad; such sweetness and yet such cruelty too, though she would never admit to its being cruelty. When I told her that Mercedes might die (she is to have another brain operation), Greta was deeply upset.
BRIEF ENCOUNTER
The Ambassador Hotel, New York
The telephone rang. It was Larry Olivier just arrived from London at the New York airport. Could he see me immediately? What was I doing for lunch? I was working desperately hard with Waldemar polishing a last draft of my first volume of diaries for an impatient publisher. Waldemar and I had, as usual, planned to have the Room Service bring in a sandwich so that no valuable time should be lost ‘breaking for lunch’. For some weeks now I had turned off the telephone and arranged no appointments during the day, and I did not feel now like breaking this routine. I had not forgotten Larry’s cruel reception of me in his dressing room at The School for Scandal and we had not spoken to one another since that awful evening. What did he want of me now, I asked? He would not tell me on the telephone, but said it was important. I relented. He could come and have a quick lunch with me downstairs in the hotel restaurant, while Waldemar, by himself, would have a sandwich and a glass of milk upstairs.
Larry appeared, looking a bit travel-stained. He was chétif in manner, edgy and nervous. He made no reference to our earlier ‘situation’ and seemed incapable of spitting out the object of our meeting. We were already halfway through the lamb chops, broccoli and mixed salad with Roquefort dressing when I took the conversational bull by the horns. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ I asked. A lot of flicking of the head, clearing of throat and darting out of the tongue presaged the ‘top secret’ information that he was going to do a film of Rattigan’s Sleeping Prince and wanted me to do the costumes for Marilyn Monroe.
I believe Larry was disappointed that I was not more impressed. But when I saw the play in London, I disliked it intensely. I considered the evening’s only distinction came from Martita Hunt’s quite historic performance as a Grand Duchess — a part in which she had completely eclipsed Olivier and which she was not now being asked to repeat on the screen. I love Marilyn Monroe and would put up with a great deal of trouble, delays and indecisions for this adorable person, and the pre-World War I period is one that I can hardly ever resist, but probably, under the circumstances, this time I could.
I went back to my room and to Waldemar, and we immediately took up where we had left off and worked long into the night. Only next day did I ring Arnold Weissberger, my friend and attorney. I told him to ask the highest fee that any designer in the history of entertainment has ever been given. As I never heard another word from Larry — and not even a thank-you for the lunch — I imagined my demands were considered insufferable.
I felt nothing but relief at having avoided in this manner what must necessarily be a difficult, if not disastrous, association. But the episode was typical of the theatre. On an impulse of a moment, all hands are on deck, everything must be decided upon the instant: don’t write, send a wire; better, telephone; better still, hop on a plane and talk direct. Then almost as quickly the enthusiasm subsides; all that has gone before is forgotten.
I am reminded of a story told to me about the Queen Mother that gives another example of her intuitive imagination. When she and the King went for the first time to Canada in 1939 their disembarkation from the ocean liner Empress of Australia was a great moment. As the Queen came down the gang-plank, a whole new continent awaited to greet and cheer her. But before she stepped on to Canadian soil, she turned back to the ship’s company, assembled to see her off, and waved her thanks to them for her safe voyage.
There are few people in the theatre who remember to look back in gratitude.
BERTRAM PARK
Bertram Park is a pleasant sort of man with an easy manner. He is quite self-confident, knows he does things well, and is immune from the prevalent complexes. He gives himself no airs, is completely at home in the universe, is honest, straightforward, quick, and with a sense of fun. But he is a dull dog.
I have always admired his work and welcomed the opportunity of talking to him at lunch at my house in London. Although I pumped three dozen questions at him about the people he had photographed over the years, I was never able to get him to respond with any enthusiasm. Admittedly his memory for names has gone, but even when I was able to supply these I still got the impression that he had gone through his entire career with only limited interest. He was not able to mention one particular person as being a favourite sitter of his.
He had a few anecdotes to tell of how Violet, Duchess of Rutland, tipped his wife a shilling after she had helped arrange the clothes for her daughter Diana’s sitting; and how Queen Marie of Rumania had ordered a thousand 15 x 12 prints of herself. He had been launched originally by Lord Caernarvon, and I imagine had photographed a great number of nudes for his benefactor.
But I felt that he only regarded photography as a commercial business — so many sittings a day to be got through. Yet, despite this, he did produce some beautiful photographs. He thought that perhaps his soft-effect pictures were too sentimental today, but they have taken their place in history.
Today, at eighty, Bertram Park is still in splendid vein, and concen
trates exclusively on the growing of rare roses.
TRUMAN CAPOTE
London
Truman Capote appeared at the doctor’s where I met him. ‘Where can I buy a suit ready-made?’ ‘Harrods.’ ‘Right. See you later tonight. Bye bye.’
At Harrods he heard a dog bark. ‘Is there a pet shop here?’ he asked. He was taken down a corridor that opened upon an emporium that contained macaws, parrots, an owl, birds, cats, lizards and crocodiles and a horrible fox-terrier. Suddenly he saw ‘the most adorable, cuddly little bulldog pup you’ve ever seen’.
He went to an assistant and said to her: ‘I would like to buy that bulldog.’
The woman said: ‘I am sorry that dog is sold, but we can order you another!’
‘No,’ said Truman, ‘that dog is mine. I wish to buy that dog. Here’s my cheque.’
‘You can’t buy that dog — besides he costs £55!’
‘My dear woman, I’ve come all the way from Spain and I know I have been directed straight to that dog. I’ve got to have that dog. It’s my destiny to have that dog.’ Truman had not intended to buy another dog after his beloved Bunkie had died, but this was something positive.
The assistant by now looked terrified in the face of this menacing madman. With a backward flick of her arms she summoned Miss Carruthers, head of the department.
‘What is it? What’s the trouble here?’ boomed Miss Carruthers.
‘This gentleman wants to buy this dog and he can’t; it’s a special order and it’s been sold to a man who’s coming in for it.’
‘Of course he can have it,’ boomed Miss Carruthers. ‘That other gentleman hasn’t paid for it. We’ve been waiting for him to turn up for five days and he hasn’t put down a deposit. Of course he can have it.’
Total collapse of assistant. Ecstatic kisses for the bulldog.
ANNE TREE
April 1st, 1961
Anne Tree has real originality, independence and character. She is an eccentric in the old traditional, aristocratic sense, and is often extremely funny when airing her surprising opinions on many sophisticated subjects.
Living in this romantically domed Italian villa in the heart of Sussex, surrounded by birds and dogs, she has a fire for life in its stranger forms. She paints porcelain, collects rare, illustrated books and now, with her zoological interest, has taken up dissecting animals.
As well as running the house and organising her family, she is helping in researches on spermatozoa; in the interests of science her job is to attempt to procure semen from selected birds, either by applying massage to the vas deferens or else by putting up a pipette. She describes how the scientist blushes when he tells her what must be done, and also how they roar with laughter despite the seriousness of their work. It is not everyone who can make you laugh over the finer points of the fertility rate of the coot.
NUREYEV
The curtain went up to the music of Scriabin. The huge stage was empty except for the scarlet-shrouded object standing centre. A crack of applause broke from the audience. Here was the exile of the Soviet Union, subdued no longer. Suddenly the cloak moved more swiftly than the eye could follow, and was violently whisked away to reveal a savage young creature, half naked, with wild eyes on an ecstatic, gaunt face, and a long mop of flying, silk hair, rushing towards the footlights. The force and dynamic power of this unexpected figure was shocking and compelling.
The dance upon which he had embarked was so strong in its impact that the theatre became an arena of electrified silence. The wild, fawnlike creature, with the parted pout, was darting round the stage, dipping and weaving like a swallow, then turning in screws like a whiplash. Then he began slowly to weave, like the leaves of water-plants, but always with metallic resilience and strength.
I am incapable of appreciating the intricacies or subtle technicalities of the dance. Even more inadequate am I at describing them. But as I held my breath for fear of disturbing my rapt attention, even I noticed the marvellous precision with which his feet were returned from space to the boards of the stage. The feet, slightly heavy and large, were like blobs of metal attached to a very resilient wire. These legs were strong, but not over-muscular like Nijinsky’s; they moved with molten glass fluidity as he made smooth leaps high into the air.
The torso was broad-shouldered, and rather narrow at the waist; the arms were strong and long, and swayed with an ineffable grace and strength. The hands, too, did everything that a sculptor in mobility would choose if he happened to be a master of the ultimate taste and refinement.
Here was something almost perfect in the taste of today. Diana Cooper, next to me, whispered: ‘He’s better than Nijinsky!’ This boy — a peasant until seventeen when he won a scholarship to be trained as a dancer — looks like all the young Beatniks of today. What we were now seeing was the culmination of the development of dancing since it began. Genius is not too strong a word to describe his quality and talent.
Nureyev’s wild, Slavic poem came to an end. The audience was for a moment stunned. Then, recovering, it produced its storm of lightning and thunder applause.
The boy responded with charm, dignity and superb Russian pride. He was obviously pleased and touched by such friendliness. His obeisances were lengthy, leisured, and completely relaxed. This twenty-three-year-old creature from the woods was now, beatnik hair and all, a Russian emperor imperviously accepting the acclaim of his people.
When I was introduced to the young fawn at Margot’s cocktail party afterwards, I kissed him on cheek and forehead in gratitude.
JACKIE KENNEDY
London: June 11th, 1961
The Jackie evening was interesting in some ways. It was to be the one informal evening in a week of triumphant European official visits for the wife of the American President. Jakie Astor and his wife Chiquita gave a small dinner party for her (apart from the Radziwills, just the William Douglas-Homes and me). Stella, their schoolgirl daughter, rushed excitedly up and down the stairs and backwards and forwards to the window in her nightgown and with one bedroom-slipper missing, because some photographers were outside and knew of their ‘secret’ guest.
Jackie appeared to be very much an over-lifesize caricature of herself. Huge baseball-players’ shoulders and haunches, big boyish hands and feet; very dark, beautiful receptive eyes looking roguish or sad — sometimes they pop too much — mouth very large and generous, with a smile turning down at the corners in an inverted laugh; the suspicion of a moustache, and very black hair.
Jackie’s manner is affected, with deep southern drawl. To the word ‘marvellous’ she would give great weight. She adopts a slight hesitancy which is good because it makes her appear modest and humble.
Jackie was outspoken and impolitic, telling of the rough talk between Jack and Mr Kruschev. Mr Kruschev had said: ‘When I was forty — your age — I was a clerk in an office, and I’ve grown to be the head of my nation, which shows what wonderful opportunities there are in the Soviet Union.’ To which Jack replied: ‘I can become President at the age of forty.’
About the flowers and the taste of the festivities at the Versailles banquet, she was ecstatic. About dinner with the Queen last night she said they were all tremendously kind and nice, but she was not impressed by the flowers, or the furnishings of the apartments at Buckingham Palace, or by the Queen’s dark-blue tulle dress and shoulder straps, or her flat hairstyle.
Jackie had been criticised for wearing Paris dresses, but she just laughed and seemed to have no fear of criticism. She enjoys so many aspects of her job, and takes for granted the more onerous onslaughts of the Press.
The evening ended early as Chiquita was only just recovering from a nasty car accident, and Jackie was tired too. She laughed a lot when I said: ‘When you bugger off, we’re going to have a wonderful post-mortem.’
MY MOTHER’S TIREDNESS
July
Mercifully she is in no acute pain, and a lot of the time she pretends to feel ill. But nothing seems to give her pleasure any mo
re. She eats her meals with a lack of interest; she shows no curiosity about the garden or her family. She attempts no responsibility. Everything is greeted with apathy. She is just worn out, and in this condition might last some time more, although almost each evening I fear may prove to be her last.
Mrs Talbot, the cook, has become remarkable as a nurse. Fortunately she has had the experience of looking after the elderly and the infirm, for she did everything for an old man of ninety before she came to us. She is high-spirited and patient with my mother. They get along well together.