by Cecil Beaton
We cut the cake, drank, danced, and sang:
‘If I loved you,
Longing to tell you but afraid and shy
I’d let my golden chances pass me by.’
She clicked her heels together and raised her glass: ‘Hoch der Kaiser.’ Then she had to go, and put on her one afternoon dress and prepare her hair for our birthday evening — a dinner for six at Margaret Case’s, to be followed by the viewing of Wilde’s Ideal Husband which I’d decorated for Korda.
Greta tied her hair back in a bow: it looked strange and audacious. She was in tearing spirits and, on arrival at Margaret’s, was effervescent, full of fancies, and poking private fun at the others: of course she was the centre of adulation. Margaret provided imaginative food, favourite friends, and a birthday cake inscribed: ‘Cecil, An Ideal Husband’. Someone made a short speech about the world having been enriched by my presence, and Greta said that was a wonderful thing to hear someone say — that they are grateful that you were born. Later, at the film, when Wilde was expounding the virtues of bachelorhood, Greta laughed. ‘Does Miss Case agree?’ she asked.
It was a curious sensation sitting next to Greta, watching the result of so much forgotten work being presented on the screen of the vast Roxy Theatre. But Wilde’s wit was of little consequence and remote to the unsophisticated audience. The fact that Greta was jubilant because it was my birthday was the only thing that mattered.
Snow was falling in tormented gusts. Greta telephoned in high excitement. ‘It’s like the inferno!’ — she longed to be out in it now. This battle of the elements against human beings thrilled her and drove her wild. In spite of her cold she would like to come over just as soon as she could be dressed. It meant cancelling most of my day’s work, but this I did gladly. Unfortunately the storm had abated, and when the sun came out she waved deprecatingly at the windows saying: ‘Oh, shucks!’ Yet she liked the sun, too, in its season — but she really liked best this snow and storm.
Greta paused by the frigidaire and asked: ‘May I make inroads upon the privacy of your ice-box?’ Miss Cleghorn, who looks like a little white barn owl, had provided us with ham, and Greta brought lightly boiled eggs in an old envelope addressed to ‘the little man’. We had an idyllic morning — Greta lying full length on the sofa, rambling on about her particular fads in cooking. ‘Never boil vegetables; the water you throw away contains the best of the vegetables, and what you eat is the garbage; therefore steam them.’ ‘Never fry with butter — it’s animal fat and hits you in the chest — it’s indigestible; use peanut oil.’ She always has sweet butter: ‘Not that old salt stuff that remains in the shop for months on end.’ I noticed that she did not eat the white of the picnic eggs. ‘When you hear something about its not being good for you, you are put off; but it must be shaming for you to see others waste — coming from England where food is still short.’ Miss Cleghorn’s ham was criticized by Greta as being too salty: I was surprised. ‘But then you don’t notice food: you’re British,’ said Greta.
After our picnic I set Greta to work drawing with some coloured chalks. She started to do a pot of hyacinths, looked very hard at the flowers, and did a quite skilful representation of them. She was rather self-conscious and excited like a ten-year-old, but soon gave up, and perpetrated infantile likenesses of myself with a great number of buttons on my suit. Before throwing the drawing block aside she ruthlessly scratched out her efforts, leaving only a careful drawing of a pink walnut as a relic of her talent.
February 6th
‘Will you have an ice-box lunch with me?’ I asked her.
‘No, I’m going to do some eggs with Mercedes — you come along.’
‘But shouldn’t I telephone to warn her?’
‘No — just turn up. Telephone her, of course, if you want to, but it’s not necessary.’
Greta, on her own, would not tell Mercedes that I, or anyone else, intended coming to see her. Greta will never even say where she is going: it is a sort of phobia. ‘Tickets have been got...’ ‘A foreign lady has asked me...’, etc.
I arrived at Mercedes’s to find pandemonium. The maid had walked out and left her mistress, who is completely hopeless at any housewifery, high and dry. Besides, Greta has a paralysing effect on her best friend who becomes tactless and silly in the presence of her high-priestess. This is a pity, for Mercedes, at her best, is capable of conversing on a wide range of subjects, and about a number of interesting people whom she has known intimately. During the course of her unconventional life she has dabbled in oriental religions and undergone many psychic and occult experiences. But today Mercedes became addle-pated; so Greta stage-managed the proceedings with a firm hand, bade Mercedes sit quietly while she laid the table, and brought in the repast: fresh butter, brown hulks of bread crusts, red wine, and eggs fragrant with masses of chives.
We talked about the scents and vegetation of California. Greta told entertainingly of her garden exploits — of her sowing grass seed early in the morning so that the neighbours shouldn’t see her ‘waving her arms about like a fairy’.
After lunch there was half an hour to spare before my afternoon’s work (a commission to make a drawing of a very ‘difficult’ lady), so Greta and I called upon a Mr Sam Saltz, whose name is one to be conjured with in the world of art-dealing. It was a delight to discover with what professional zest Greta was able to converse about his small, but remarkable, collection of modern paintings; she has a quicker eye and a much more profound, though less tutored, appreciation than I have. Mr Saltz showed us a Monet of a water-garden — a mass of lilies and roses: it could have been appallingly chocolate-boxy, but the authority of the painting produced a tour de force. However, it still remained too ‘pretty-pretty’ for Greta’s taste. But another interior by Vuillard, with an old woman reading by a lamp, was a masterpiece and thrilled both of us. Mr Saltz has a most eminent clientele. He showed us pictures that belonged to Sam Warner and to Horowitz. One Renoir was about to be sent off to Gary Cooper who, when he bought it, remarked: ‘She’s quite a girl.’
Greta walked as far as my hotel, then went about making definite plans to leave for California: taking some of her possessions to ‘storage’ and seeing her travel agent.
DINNER WITH MERCEDES
February 11th, 1948
Mercedes was determined that I should dine with her. I told Greta of my qualms lest Mercedes’s curiosity should prompt her to ask embarrassing questions about our ‘intentions’. Greta suggested: ‘Just say “Now really, Mercedes, you must be nutsky”, or look her straight in the face and say “I don’t know what you’re talking about”.’
But the evening was very different from the one imagined: it was I who did the probing. I asked Mercedes about Maud Adams who, when a great stage star, had much of Greta’s love of the elusive about her and is now living in a convent; Marie Doro, Isadora Duncan, and Gandhi, all of whom Mercedes knew intimately. I also asked about her remarkable sister, Rita Lydig, who was renowned for being the most extravagant woman of her day, and travelled abroad with seven servants including masseuse and hairdresser. Mercedes insisted rather that her sister had been open-hearted, and so generous that her financial downfall had been due to such gestures as giving uncut emeralds as presents to the little woman who fitted her dresses, and a priceless Persian rug to a violinist who had played for her.
I had known Mrs Lydig from her Boldini portraits, but only met her once when I first came to America nearly twenty years ago. But by then her health had been undermined by drugs, to which she had become addicted after a careless doctor had caused her terrible suffering. By forgetting to turn off an electric pad, placed under her while being given an anaesthetic before an operation, he had inflicted upon her such serious burns that they were never to heal. With her teapot-spout nose and black, shining, satin cushion of hair, her pale lips with the ‘cat after cream’ expression, she had the self-confidence of a slightly unbalanced person, and the vast expanse of plump, pearly breast which she exhibited was, at
that time, a little alarming. Her patronage of the arts — with a particular taste for music and encouragement of musicians — resulted in her house being used at all times for rehearsals or concerts. She had a special penchant for the Renaissance, was an expert on oriental art, and as an innovator of fashion wore the first ‘backless’ evening dress at the opera. Shoes were also a passion, and she possessed literally hundreds of pairs made of Elizabethan lace, rare skins, and quattrocento velvet, all buckled, often with jewels, made by the genius, Yantumi, who worked only for women he admired. He did not charge them for each pair — each of a different style — but asked for an initial fee of a thousand pounds. After this, he could afford to have the trees made from wood for violins. When hard-pressed for money, Mrs Lydig preferred to fill her house with rare white flowers rather than to eat.
It was not until late into the night that Mercedes switched to the topic of Greta, who, she felt, was in a terrible quandary of indecision and whose life was at the cross-roads. ‘Even at the moment Greta cannot decide whether to go back to California, to sell the house there and put herself under the care of Dr Kling here, or to stay with you in Europe.’ This latter information came as a surprise. Greta was without any real interests in life; yet if she continued for another two years to dicker away valuable, fleeting time, her professional career irrevocably would be at an end.
Greta had always despised Hollywood motion pictures; even her best films, she felt, were lacking in value or quality. Even when Greta was in a strong enough position to dictate to the management, she was miserably unhappy. (When Mercedes drove her to the studio for the opening day’s work on Marie Walewska Greta was in tears all the way to Culver City crying: ‘This is prostitution!’) She would return from the studio most evenings abysmally unhappy, and sit alone locked in the cellar. Every scene she shot must be perfect, yet in her estimation she seldom came up to her own standards. For this reason she would never go to see the ‘rushes’: they would disappoint and depress her too much. But she was an actress of great temperament, and for her peace of mind should continue to cultivate her art; it was madness to dam up this natural fount of energy.
Yet whenever any offer for her to reappear is made, a dread comes over her. Recently offers for radio and television had come in shoals, but Greta never even answers these requests. One telegram she showed to ‘the little man’, who said: ‘Well, I’m sorry, but this is one thing you can’t turn down. It only entails a half-hour appearance, and just look what they’re going to pay you. You can’t afford to turn it down!’ ‘Oh yes, I can. I don’t need the money, and nothing on earth would make me do a thing like that for an advertisement.’
‘But, if she doesn’t work, what is there in store for her? What will happen to her in ten years’ time? What is her life now? Hunting around Third Avenue shops for junk, waiting for orders from “the little man”. She has only a handful of friends, and some of those are pretty suspect.’ Mercedes said that it seemed fated that Greta, the most suspicious person, should often find herself on friendly terms with those least suited to her by temperament. Terrified of being exploited, she was always being victimized. Gayelord Hauser had used her for publicity purposes for his Health Food Campaign. ‘And look at Stokowski! When they went to Italy together, Greta discovered that he was sending back reports to the American papers about their forthcoming marriage. When she discovered this, she left in a panic for Sweden to go to her sister-in-law, never to set eyes upon the maestro again.’ Mercedes sighed: ‘If only she’d marry you!’
Friday, February 13th
Somehow or other I was incapable of hurrying and, when I arrived at the Tower after luncheon, I was twenty minutes late. I had imagined we were to embark on our customary walk in the park, but Greta was put out for she had been waiting in the hall in order to hurry out to see a Dostoyevsky film. I was abject with apologies for my lapse, and Greta said — half, but only half — jokingly: ‘Shan’t trust you any more.’ This hurt a lot.
A superstitious Irishman earlier had pointed out that today’s date was an unfortunate one. When I repeated this to Greta, she admitted that all morning she, like myself, had been overcome by angst: we had both felt depressed for no particular reason. Perhaps if two people share a great emotion, however happy, it produces nervous tension — or maybe the exhaustion comes from merely existing in New York.
Bravely we set off in pouring rain — no taxis — and were soaked on arrival at the movie. We sat with wet over-clothes piled above and beneath us. Spasmodic waves of tenderness submerged me as I watched Greta watching the screen. She looked like a sprite, her face so white and lily-like under the absurd hat — an inverted toadstool. Gérard Philippe, with his pale star-struck eyes, was the perfect Prince Mischkin, but Greta was even more impressed by Edwige Feuillière. ‘She is a woman of experience; she wears her costumes with great chic; no one else over here has that authority.’ Film over. Pile on the clothes: mackintosh over the blue coat, the scarf, the woollen gloves, the umbrella. Now to sally forth into the rain again: it was dark outside.
We walked down the street. Like a flash out of the blue ‘the little man’ appeared. He was ill at ease with me — shook hands, but did not speak a word. He seemed very intimate with Greta: she appeared touched at the sudden sight of him. Greta and he would meet five minutes later. Greta smiled sweetly at him before we continued on our way. ‘Well, that was a surprise,’ she said. I felt a sort of belated desperation and wanted to destroy everything. For the first time I was almost pleased that our afternoon together was not continuing. The strain, perhaps on both sides, had been successfully hidden until recently when it rises more often to the surface. Neither Greta nor I are feeling well; we are both tired and, as she said: ‘Life is already so complicated, why add to the difficulties?’ But since, at the moment, I am one of these difficulties, I must continue to fight to make myself part of her life.
We parted with sad smiles. My cold has made me feel sorry for myself, and I would have liked nothing more than to go to bed for days on end. But not even an early evening was possible: I had arranged to go to a play so had to drag myself out against my will. When, exhausted, I returned late to my room and was heating up some soup over a chafing-dish, the telephone bell rang. Greta was in bed, lying in the dark. ‘All is black — there is just the light of my cigarette burning.’ ‘Mascara off?’ I asked. ‘Yes — and I was just thinking that I’d been rather peckish to you this afternoon, and wanted to tell you that... but I thought that maybe, since you’ve a cold, and if you were worried, you wouldn’t get well so quickly... so I thought I’d better tell you.’ I was touched. I admitted that I felt sad that she hadn’t been as nice to me as before, and had noticed a sharp tone in her voice. Now, by her thoughtfulness, I was comforted. ‘Maybe I don’t give you a chance: it isn’t a fair deal you get, and maybe…’ But she was not allowed to continue. I interrupted: ‘We are both tired and depressed and ill: tonight nothing we say is going to be of any help. It’s no good discussing difficulties, for there’s nothing in the world to prevent my being a good friend of yours.’
I told her that Korda had arrived in New York and wanted to see me about further projects and how, although he’s a nice enough man and chock-full of charm, the thought of working in film studios still torments me. Greta elaborated upon the dread of being part of an enterprise where everything was so often difficult because, with the technical element uppermost, no one could work entirely on his own or do just what he wanted, and when such vast sums were involved everything had to be cut and dried. ‘If only the work could be done when one feels like it, and on one’s own! If you aren’t fond of audiences — and I’m not — it’s humiliating to have to show off in front of people. I don’t even care to act in front of the electricians, and there is such a lot of noise — even in an emotional scene there are men hammering and spitting everywhere. And you have to be so careful! I used to be very calm and quiet, and never allow myself to get involved. But occasionally you want things to be a little
better: when I did Anna Karenina I spoke to Gibbons, the art director, and showed him books of the period so that the interiors could look more real. But he was too busy and tired doing too many pictures at pressure. And you have to use the velvet glove gently, and I’m tired of using gloves. It’s such a waste of energy not to be able to say: “I want the thing to be done in this way.” It’s gruelling, but after all it’s wonderful what you can get on celluloid. It’s so much vaster than the stage, with thousands of people seen in one shot, and yet much more intimate. You can show everything on that small strip of film; the rhythm of a whole city can be projected on a few inches of celluloid.’ Greta said that she had often felt that she’d like to be a director and put on the screen some of the things she had been impressed by: the strange groups that people naturally fall into — not just the conventional line-up that fills the screens today: ‘negro feet dancing, trees moving, clouds passing in front of the sun’.
Perhaps, after all, Greta will embark on acting in a film, but after eight years it is hard to start again. ‘But if I could be given a picture like The Idiot to do — I’d go back!’
We had dinner in the night-club of my hotel. The small orchestra played rhythmically: I asked for ‘If I Loved You and ‘People Will Say We’re In Love’. I longed to dance. I considered that Greta’s woollen clothes would have put to shame the ghastly women having an evening out in their gaudy ‘glad-rags’ — but I do admit that her galoshes over large boots would have looked curious on the polished floor.
Part of the silence of two years was broken when Greta confessed that she had received flowers from me in Sweden during the time of our ‘rupture’. ‘Beautiful flowers, they were,’ she said. This news made me glad. She also let fall the fact that her trip to Sweden had been ruined by the newspapers. ‘They have assumed the vulgarity of America,’ she said, ‘and I had a horrible experience there.’ But I was not foolish enough to ask what it had been.
