The Happy Years (1944-48)

by Cecil Beaton

  The winter sun has faded: it is now past the best of the day and the air is very cold. I mistake a number of women for the person I have in mind: she has not yet arrived. I stand about. My nose becomes mauve and icicled: there is no more draughty place than under that archway. I wander towards the Zoo and go into the Lion House; it is warm in there, but smelly. I must not remain more than a second in case she has arrived and is already waiting. No sign. I sit on a park seat and watch an old woman in a fur coat feeding the pigeons and squirrels. I go into the even smellier warmth of the Monkey House, but not for long. When I come out and walk by the cages, where a few scruffy animals are watched by the nursemaids and their charges, I see the divinely proportioned figure coming towards me. It is, unlike the rest of humanity, so utterly romantic. It is wearing a dark blue coat and Pilgrim Fathers’ hat, a large black bag slung from a shoulder, gloves and sandals. The passers-by spot her so we cannot draw attention to ourselves. As we approach we give discreet signals with our hands. Then suddenly we are together. I about-turn and arm-in-arm we are rushing through the gritty parkland. We chatter like six-year-olds. When some pigeons get into her path she becomes very English and refers to them as ‘these bloody doves’. We march in double-quick time as far as the Museum, then stand panting.

  ‘Shall we go in and look at the tapestries?’ I ask.

  ‘How smart you are! How did you know they are on view? Well, we won’t go in — we’ll go back.’

  A woman with a pram shouts at Greta in Swedish — she receives no reply. A man who dogs us for some distance, and then asks to take a photograph, gets a very sweet and gracious refusal. As we near my hotel she remarks: ‘By the law of gravity this should be Sixty-Fifth Street.’

  We part, but only for a short duration — she to go to Sixty-Third Street to buy some plain biscuits for our tea before joining me in my rooms. She does not wish to be seen coming into the hotel with me. I order tea from Eugene, the floor-waiter, and light the candles and dismiss Miss Cleghorn. Then the bell rings frantically: she is out of breath, her hair all awry, the package under her arm. She has been discovered coming up the back stairs by Serge Obolensky. He seems very surprised and engages her in conversation. I am amused at her panic. Her face is still cold from the park. The tanning arrives from Eugene.

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ she says. ‘Don’t scrutinize.’ She keeps looking at her watch. ‘Isn’t it awful to be with someone who is always following the clock, and is so strict, and won’t let you ask questions or scrutinize!’

  VISIT TO THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART

  December 4th, 1947

  ‘Miss Brown don’t answer.’ It is as if I were falling through space. She cannot have left the hotel so early. I try again throughout the day. No — surely we are not back to where we were?

  When, eventually, Greta does answer my call she will give no explanation for her evasiveness during the past week. She merely asks me: ‘You know Alan Porter at the Museum of Modern Art? I haven’t seen him for ages, and this morning he rang me up. Well, we are meeting at the Museum at four o’clock; would you like to come?’

  Tea and cookies were being served to a lot of old Helen Hokinson women with floral hats and hearing-aids in the penthouse lounge. Greta and Alan were sitting deep in gossip behind a large ficus plant. Greta wore layer upon layer of woollen garments — an assortment in, roughly, mushroom colours. She was exerting herself a great deal and making most of the conversational headway while Alan kept saying: ‘Wouldn’t you know it!’ But eventually Alan started asking blatant questions that I have long since learnt to avoid. For example: ‘Who was that crazy man I read about in the papers who has died leaving you his farm and fortune?’ It seems Greta had never seen the nut, and he had merely ended by giving her a lot of bother for the residue of his will may amount to about half a goat: her lawyer is dealing with it. ‘But who is going to look after the lawyer?’ asked Alan. Then he brazenly talked about her film work — a subject that all her friends quickly learn is taboo. ‘Your early pictures — Joyless Street and Gosta Bjorling — how old were you then?’ Surprisingly enough Greta supplied the information: ‘Not yet eighteen — and I had such a lot of puppy-fat! My arms were so well-covered, and my bosoms were full and round and were supported very high up like a pigeon.’ Alan: ‘You wore a black wig.’ G.: ‘Oh no, I never wore a black wig! I’ve always had my own natural hair, except once for The Torrent when it was dyed — oh, it was horrible! But, imagine this — we are talking about myself — that’s bad!’

  I walk Greta home, but she makes no definite date for another meeting. Has she been forbidden by ‘the little man’ to see me alone? Has she decided that I must be dropped? Yet she is not the sort who quickly grows tired of a friend. I am baffled and worried.

  MONA’S ADVICE

  Mona[30] is one of my oldest New York friends: there is nothing I do not confide in her. One evening I confessed that I was as deeply in love with Greta as if I had been a man half my age smitten for the first time. I explained that for so many years now, my relationships of an amorous nature have not seriously involved the deeper emotions. Suddenly I realized how inexperienced I am at coping with a situation that others of my age would have conducted with considerable maturity. So naïf and gauche am I that I am incapable of utilizing unexpected situations to my best advantage. Only very rarely in any former romantic relationship have I felt that my physical presence has played a dominant part in the situation. For generally it was the other person who was the magnet; I was considered primarily for my attributes of companionship, affection or love on a more platonic plane. Suddenly I realized that I was emitting some sort of electric power. Now that I knew that I possessed this extra strength I recoiled from it. I was embarrassed, and felt that it gave me an unfair advantage which I did not enjoy, and did not wish to use. No doubt this was foolish. In a fight for survival in love perhaps one should avail oneself of all odds. But, having acquired this mysterious gift, I tried to minimize its magic.

  I told Mona that I felt Greta was more than intrigued by me, but the agony of never knowing quite where one was with her was almost beyond endurance. Suddenly one day Greta could not be found. Without any valid reason she had disappeared...

  Mona gave me the advice I could only find in New York. ‘You’re being a dope,’ she said. ‘Stop it — it’s not getting you anywhere. Surely you know what a bore it is to have someone waiting for you — always at your beck and call, never cutting up rough or keeping you guessing. You just play her game — behave with her in the same way that she behaves with you. Don’t call her up, and when she calls you, say you’ve been busy. Be nice to her, of course, but be rather casual. If it doesn’t work you’ve lost nothing, because as it is you haven’t got anything. But you’ll find it will succeed, believe me. I don’t wish to be a traitor to my sex, but women are so much less nice than men, and you’re my friend and I see her game so clearly. She knows you are just hanging about waiting on her, and if she feels in the mood she will come around, just for an hour. But you’ve got to get her worried: you’ve got to get her mind, and her mind’s got to worry about what’s going on in your mind. When first you see the results working, don’t have any mercy. It’s crucial; you can’t afford to be dopey about anything that is important in your life. Why do you think I’ve been able to keep Harrison interested all these years? He is the arch-teaser and I knew where he was trying to get me. But I played my cards better than he did. He’s guessing all the time, and that’s why he is so intrigued and happy.’

  Monday

  I didn’t telephone — my usual sentimental call of habit. I didn’t telephone for four days. I was flat on my bed when the telephone bell rang. ‘Can I come around now?’ she asked. It was pouring with rain outside, the traffic disorganized. I didn’t sound welcoming. ‘It’s too rainy for you to sally forth, and I’ve got to go out.’ Thus refusal worked like a trick. ‘I’ll be right over.’ The pep-talk from Mona had given me assurance: it was as if I’d employed a magic potio
n. The door-bell rang and, instead of hurrying to open it, I walked very arrogantly and slowly around the room in a stiff manner, amused as I watched my progress in the looking-glass over the drawing-room chimney.

  ‘So you’ve been busy, have you? Well, what have you been doing?’ Smiles, uncertainties, embarrassments on her part. If only temporarily — the tables were suddenly turned. G. said: ‘I knew instinctively that I ought not to have waited so long.’ Her fears about my being faithless had been corroborated — according to her. I sat back and smiled.

  For a year and a half I had felt unsure of myself, but now I was enjoying my pathetic little victory. I mentioned that I was out until three o’clock in the morning with somebody: that made an impression. I told her I was dining tonight with Mona: that went well too. Questions were asked about other friends, and after certain admissions she said: ‘You’re stepping out in all directions.’ We talked more like two old friends for, suddenly, we were exchanging information instead of mere childish jibberish. All at once she said: ‘Damn that party! Why do you have to go? I want you to stay here.’ Yet I felt sorry for Greta: she looked somewhat impoverished — like a stray kitten — very wet with a fur-lined mackintosh and hood that had shrunk. She wore a lot of woollen scarves and waistcoats over her dark blue jumper. Greta is too frightened to go into Saks alone, but the other day, accompanied by her friend Mrs Sanson, she had mustered sufficient courage to buy a new skirt. The skirt had the ‘new look’, long and flowing, but in the rain it had become longer, the waist-band was too loose and it kept falling, and it appeared almost like a peasant’s skirt with her rubber high boots below. She said everything was the wrong length — her new expensive coat was too short and couldn’t be let down. ‘It’s very sad to be a woman.’

  Suddenly she asked many questions about my mother and about my life and my house in the country, and what would happen if she lived there. There was no note of confidence in her voice. I had to steel myself not to show my sympathy and to decide that I must leave forthwith for this cocktail party which I knew would be hell. We walked out together into the rain. Greta’s gloves were made of grey cotton and looked poor with pointed finger tips that were wet. She made a picture of misery and courage as she went back to her ivory Ritz Tower, alone and baffled.

  Later: I must be firm and not allow myself to telephone for several days while my new position is being consolidated. The novice continues the horrible campaign.

  THEATRE-GOINGS AND MEETINGS WITH GRETA

  I am dozing at six o’clock one evening when the unforgettable voice is heard again on the telephone. I perk up. ‘Are you still as busy as ever?’ I answer: ‘Oh yes, very busy.’ ‘Well, I’m laid up — I’m in poor spirits.’ Commiserations. More questions asked about whom I’d seen. I described Mona’s beauty — her skin so blooming and in the pitch of perfection, and her hands so smooth and beautiful. G. gasped: ‘My hands are so rough and wrinkled and lined. Ask Mona what she puts on her hands, will you?’ Vague plans are made for the future. She can’t get seats for The Winslow Boy, which has been brought over from London and is an enormous success on Broadway. Have I any pull? ‘Of course I have.’ ‘Then we’ll go on Monday — and what about seeing the Royal Wedding on the screen?’ We talked on the telephone for an hour. At one moment I said: ‘So put that in your pipe and smoke it.’ Greta said: ‘You’re not to use such rough expressions to me — I’m feeling down-trodden enough as it is. I’m not a bit chipper.’ (‘Chippurre.’)

  An angry voice on the telephone: ‘Are you trying to mesmerize me?’ ‘What nonsense — what are you talking about?’ ‘Were you trying to mesmerize me?’ ‘No.’ ‘I suppose you were quite busy — never thinking about me at all.’ She continued: ‘Well, why should I telephone you? I can’t see you today.’ Nevertheless, we made vague plans about meeting, or rather not meeting, at a party tonight. My evening was as free as air but I had suddenly decided not to go to this party, not because it would be dull, but mainly because if she went, as I expected she would, she would wonder why I wasn’t there.

  I do not telephone her but rather wait for her call. It makes life much happier not having to hear that death knell: ‘She don’t answer.’ Sometimes the bell rings and I pick up the receiver: there are strange intakes of breath, muffled giggles and small squeaks, and I know who to expect on the line. My name is reiterated in a bird chirp: I no longer retort with her name. Today she would come along at five o’clock: she arrived a little before.

  I accepted her compliments in silence, and whenever she asked me some point-blank questions I avoided a straight reply. She laughed: ‘You’re so afraid of committing yourself!’ It is still somewhat of an effort to assume consciously a different role from that which one has played for the last two years. How different the state in Denmark since I arrived here when everything had been so frustrating! Now, in fun, she said: ‘I think I shall have to make an honest man of you!’ ‘No, it’s too late — you’re not the marrying type,’ I rejoindered, almost gritting my teeth and clenching my fists in a farcical effort to follow Mona’s tuition.

  Although perhaps even to confide such thoughts to paper may be unwise, there are times when I feel that the possibility is within sight that one day I might get her worked up sufficiently to rush off to a registrar. For myself I am not only willing, but desperate, and confident that we could have the infinite joy of making a new and successful life together.

  I dare not feel pity for the battle is still too desperate: on so many points I’m likely to give way. But isn’t it rather abominable what a difference a change of tactics has made? Greta used never to ask me to call her, and if I asked if I might, she would say: ‘No, I’ll call you.’ Now she asks me to telephone her tomorrow to tell her about the opening of Antony and Cleopatra. ‘Tomorrow ring me anytime — 10.30, eleven, whenever you want.’

  I telephoned as late as possible. At the end of our talk she said: ‘Thank you for calling me.’ The following morning she telephoned me: ‘I must go out for a bit so that they can do the rooms — they are getting dusty after four days. I looked out of the window yesterday and it appeared so crisp outside; but I can’t come and see you today — I look too pale.’

  December, 1947

  I went to Boston for two or three days to photograph a gentleman-cook on Beacon Hill for Vogue, but I did not call Greta before leaving and gave no hint that I would be away. I liked to think the telephone would be ringing in my absence. On Thanksgiving Day I had delivered a vase of white orchids with one of the long letters that I had written to her while I was in London when I had no knowledge of where to send it. She would certainly acknowledge the flowers but, as her hotel operator had said to me so many times, mine would give the same: ‘No answer.’ Sure enough, when I returned from Boston there were many messages to say ‘Miss Brown’ had telephoned. Soon after I had finished my breakfast on Monday morning the telephone again rang and, while I was talking on one line, Miss Cleghorn came in from the sitting-room to say that Miss Garbo was on the other. ‘Is it all right for the theatre tonight?’ Greta asked. ‘Would you like me to come round early? Very early — five o’clock?’ ‘Five o’clock.’

  The day was a particularly pleasant one: it was the first of December. I had said ‘Rabbits’ before any other word and I felt that augured a lucky spell. (When one is in love one becomes not only more fatuous, but more superstitious.) In fact, the day was spent in the most agreeable way of all — dictating, writing and reading until the last possible moment: it contained no traffic problems or anxiety at arriving late for appointments. Just time enough to bath, hurry downstairs to have my hair cut, and return to open my door to the most fascinating and intriguing creature in the whole city. Instead of my making all the overtures, and perhaps receiving only monosyllabic or elusive replies, it was now her turn to take the initiative. She asked jealous questions that were always hidden beneath a veil of jocularity but, nevertheless, evinced real interest. If my replies were distasteful to her she did not fail to show they were
so by the play on her face.

  Outside it was dark and cold, but a few rays of street light came in through the mustard velvet curtains. They cast an extraordinary glow as they fell onto the head as it lay resting like a particularly fine ship’s figure-head, though made of incandescent alabaster, with hair flowing back and long neck curved against the waves. I became almost dizzy and mesmerized by the huge eyes — eyes staring long and continuously with barely a flicker of the lids.

  Of course there was the usual last-minute rush to a restaurant — an Austrian place that was empty except for ourselves.

  Greta wanted our theatre seats to be near the stage; I managed to get them — centre front row. She was so pleased that she said: ‘I think I’ll have to take you to see the Minister.’ Throughout the play she stared at me, and I remembered how I used to stare at people with whom I have been in love, and how annoyed they became. The Winslow Boy was a good choice for the play is so essentially English, and I explained that its atmosphere was similar to that in which I had been brought up. ‘Did you have that sort of furniture?’ she asked. I nodded. She was impressed by the English team-work acting.

  On the way home, at Doubleday’s bookshop, I pointed out a picture of herself in an album of cinema stars of the last decade. ‘I don’t give a damn,’ she laughed. Then, putting her arm through mine, she chirped: ‘I like you, I like you — it’s not a big word, but I like you, and whenever I say goodbye I want to see you again.’