The Parting Years (1963-74)

by Cecil Beaton

  However, the moment came when Miss Bolton could not look after herself any more, so until Michael and Anne found a new house, she must be taken to a sort of old-folks’ home run by nuns. ‘Nuns, they’re some sort of servant, aren’t they? Well they’ll look after me well.’ But the leave-taking was heartrending. Anne hugged her: ‘Well, Lilian, we’d better be off, hadn’t we?’ ‘Yes, otherwise I’ll be late for lunch.’

  Anne, angel that she is, goes down to the home to take out Miss Bolton whenever possible. ‘Oh, the happiness of it! We go out and guzzle.’ ‘We’d better hurry, Anne, or they may be out of “sweet”.’ She tucks in to pretty revolting food with relish but not gratitude. Anne, loving the companionship, says, ‘Oh, the joy, and we’ll have her back as soon as we have another home!’ Even Michael, who earns a halo for his patience, says he misses the old pig and sends her postcards whenever he has nothing else to do.

  Reddish: July 21st, 1969

  Unbelievable thrill of watching on television, like six hundred million others, man’s first journey to the moon. We could not believe that we were actually watching men up on that bright crescent that could be seen in the sky from the garden on this marvellous summer’s night.

  Irene Worth, Elizabeth Cavendish and James Pope-Hennessy were staying and we sat glued with pulses throbbing and fears that there might be some last minute, unforeseen disaster. The terror continued. How could such courage be?

  The whole thing was a great American triumph, marvellous beyond dreams from the scientific point of view. The heroes used poetic and imaginative phrases. Instead of the expected ‘say, brother, you should see these colours!’ Armstrong said: ‘That’s one small step for man, but one giant leap for mankind.’

  They performed faultlessly their prescribed tasks and answered becomingly the congratulations of the whole world from President Nixon. Before they returned to earth, they left an olive branch and medals in homage to the astronauts who had died in earlier, unsuccessful attempts to reach this fantastic goal.

  The household was up at 6 am to watch the splash-down, all but James, suffering terribly from DTS — what a tragedy! — and so vivid was the way that this expedition had eaten into the subconscious that none of us had been able to sleep soundly.

  An event that we will never forget and will never be able to understand.

  IRELAND

  August

  It is of great benefit to escape from one’s own surroundings. I met Henry McIlhenny at the Russell Hotel in Dublin, in time for prawns and sole at lunch. I felt I was living in the privileged class when the waiter asked Henry if he would like to take the fish off the bone. Henry replied: ‘Oh no, you do it — it’s too tiring.’ Henry laughs a lot. It becomes a habit and sounds false. But Henry is a nice person and fair, and often very kind. He really uses his money imaginatively. Few people know as well as he how to be rich. And he is rich. The house in Philadelphia has fantastic pictures and this 1890 castle in Donegal is extreme in its comfort: peat fires scenting every bedroom, full bottles of Floris Lime by the bath; excellent meals. There is a beautifully stocked garden with auratum lilies eight feet high. I understand when others say it looks like a public garden, but it is of infinite interest and tended with extreme care by eight gardeners.

  Henry has become very much the host character. His observations punctuated with ‘you know’ and his voice has acquired an exaggerated sing-song of exclamations that is easy to copy. ‘My dear, the price of things! I nearly fainted but I had to order them. Those huge pots come from Florence. They cost nothing! But nothing. It’s the freight that’s the hell of it, and I had to order forty!’ Henry gives a thumb-nail sketch of his guests (they pour in for every meal): ‘So-and-so’s just written a play about Pontius Pilate — such a queer subject my dear. It got rave reviews in Belfast but it never got to Dublin.’ ‘He’s all right, perfectly respectable, with a good-looking wife and nice Rolls-Royce at the door!’

  Some of Henry’s guests were intolerable. I put up with Americans willingly only when I am on business bent. On holiday they are too trite. One old trout from Charleston was bemoaning the way the world is going. ‘There aren’t any servants any more, and I’m not going to do my own cooking. I’m not interested, and I hate kitchens! My daughter is a very good cook, but I don’t want to go in and watch her preparing dinner, and get a lot of grease in my hair. And there ain’t any men left either. American men have no stamina and they all die ten years younger than the women. I hate old women! All women should die at seventy. Then life’s becoming unattractive. It was all right until after the last war, but I knew life before the 1914 war and then it was something!’

  Moving on to Derek Hill was a great contrast. I had only ever seen pictures of his Vuillard-patterned house. Inside the clutter was of an untidyness and shabbiness unparalleled. The brilliant cobalt-blue walls in the outer hall were peeling and wet. Some of the curtains were hanging in shreds, the china was mixed and chipped; books bulged from the shelves and some were laid horizontally on top of others. Overcrowding took on a new meaning. Pictures like postage stamps on the wall, memorabilia, mottoes, picture postcards mixed up with little original drawings by Degas; among the litter a Corot and a Tonks. The electric light bulbs were too weak for reading purposes. The soap in the bath was almost too small a slither to hold, let alone get a lather from. It was a rather delightful mess and I love Derek for his lack of self-consciousness about it, particularly as he is so over-careful in creating a good impression, in wanting to be loved.

  Derek is a sad character and I feel he is deeply disillusioned about life. He never seems excited or exuberant; nothing is quite as good as he thought it would be. He has removed himself quite a way from everybody, though he does have more good and loyal friends than almost anybody I know.

  I enjoyed being with him and getting to know his wonderful cook Gracie, but I wish that the sun had greeted us on waking for just one morning during this very cold and damp visit.

  Departure from Donegal

  It really was the hangman’s call. It was dark outside when Derek called me, but I had already heard him banging about and doing his last-minute packing. We had to make this early start to motor to Belfast because there had been stories of motorists stopped and all their baggage and papers carefully examined. As it happened, we were so early that no one was around at the border, and the deserted roads were only inhabited by animals. We had a complete demonstration of nature as we drove through families of magpies, and many more rabbits than one would see in England. Squirrels, mice, rats, hares and stray cats crossed our path. Only the bird life is lacking; the Irish countryside is said to be too poor for many birds to survive.

  At Bogside the barricades of burnt-out lorries, trash of all sorts and barbed wire seemed merely fatuous and childish, but I suppose during the recent fighting they were of importance. Now the whole mess merely highlights the stupidity of the Irish fighting one another with the result that all are poorer even than they were before, and life in Ireland today is abysmally meagre. But the Irish love to fight. It is their means of getting rid of adrenalin, and the many issues at stake are so complicated that they are not likely to be cleared up now, or for a very long time to come. Meanwhile life is always uneasy when the IRA are around, and lately their activities have been felt in many sinister ways. Let us hope they will not be vicious enough to resort to their old tricks of destroying beautiful old houses, and setting fire to stables without letting out the horses. We crossed Londonderry bridge guarded by sad, very young-looking soldiers with their guns at the ready. It gave one a pang to see them. It reminded one too much of the last war.

  The day was grey and the long wait in the cold air made me very impatient to leave, and to return to less hilly, wide open scenery and to an easier way of life.

  Andy Warhol, looking through some art magazines says: ‘Isn’t the art scene today revolting! Oh I wish I could think of a way of making it worse!’

  New York: September 1969

  Saturday.
All morning spent with Michael Bennett, the choreographer on Coco, at his fantastic, eerie, psychedelic cave of an apartment; magenta, scarlet, emerald green with blue spotlights, a favourable and unexpected atmosphere in which to work. If anyone is going to save this show, it is Michael Bennett. He has worked hard and brilliantly with utterly real and lively conceptions. It is amazing that he does not ever seem to need either food or drink.

  I did not mind when he asked me to abandon a whole set of costumes; he was right, for somehow they were wrong. The project, at last, seems to be an exciting one. Such a change; I have all along been pretending. So much time wasted, so much energy gone down the drain and sheaves of notes completely outdated; but now I am inspired.

  Sunday. A peaceful spell of work in my hotel bedroom, enjoying doing the new designs to replace those that Bennett knew were wrong. By degrees the pressure under which I have been for so long in England (and the nervous colitis too) is subsiding, and I begin to feel very much more leisurely in my attitude.

  This is the winter season of pornography. Oh Calcutta by Kenneth Tynan has given birth to dozens of other rude and nude shows.

  The movies and papers are advertising every sort of sex. Nothing is left unsaid. Where does it go from here?

  October 1969

  On my way to London Airport I got a great thrill seeing a procession of outriders in white helmets, the cavalcade of motor cars and all the panoply of power that usually goes with the arrival of royalty to our shores. The ‘Moon Men’ had come to England. In one of those cars were the perfectly nice, ordinary men who had made that incredible journey. I thought of the extraordinary experience it must be for them, having spent ten days in those unreal conditions and now to process through the capitals of the world, cheered and feted wherever they go; and, quite rightly, treated as super-heroes.

  It must be very different from anything they have known before! Tonight they are being received by the Queen in the Palace.

  VERMONT

  October 18th

  Sam Green and I took off in a small plane with large oval windows and through them had a really beautiful view of New York State, Connecticut and New Hampshire in their full light and colour. It was perhaps part of the real USA, not the hurried glimpse I get down 55th Street.

  The autumn colours are more brilliant than at home, and in the hard, sharp light they created a fantastic Samuel Palmer carpet below; most impressive mixture of colour patches, a lot of rich bluish-green with some yellow interspersed, some scarlet and some orange. The silver birches had shed their yellow leaves and were now ivory skeletons, and like thistledown in the distance.

  We arrived, picked up a Hertz car and drove up to the mountains of Vermont. We drank fresh apple cider, bought maple syrup, cookies and apples; and ‘arty’ clothes from a ninety-year-old woman in a broken-down shack. The trees became more golden in the evening sun, the sky crimson. The dirt roads we travelled seemed to lead nowhere, but somehow we managed to arrive at a nice ski lodge. It had a family atmosphere; everyone friendly, log fires. The presence of Sam was agreeable and sympathetic, and it was nice to have this little doll’s building to ourselves. We talked for hours. Eventually I leapt between the sheets and was asleep within a few seconds.

  October 19th

  Sun the other side of the cretonne blind and, as a breeze moved it, a glimpse of bright-red leaves outside. It was fine mountain air that came through the window. The sounds of activity outside were all connected with outdoor sports; people going off to hunt birds, and to hike, taking picnic-baskets with them.

  It was a welcome change from pressures of the theatre which I had just left behind. Sam drove the rented car brilliantly and we had a long and enjoyable day sightseeing; Putney, Athens, such odd names, which all meant a great deal to Sam who spent his youth here at school so this for him was le temps perdu. We walked through yellow and orange avenues of trees, saw the ugly locals dressed in scarlet jackets and woollen caps armed with bows and arrows to shoot deer. It was a medieval sight. We pottered among gravestones, climbed a mountain and, although the skies greyed over, sat and picnicked, the chicken and sandwiches all tasting of the cardboard boxes in which they were packed. Sleepy with sun and air we returned, and I slept more warmly and deeply than I had for months.

  New York: November 1st

  Bennett’s choreography moves me. I am deeply touched by the Parade of Fashions in the finale. But much of the show is banal Broadway fare; the music without distinction and much of the dialogue is anathema to me!

  November 9th

  Alan Lerner makes me nervous with all his suggestions, some of which are bang on the mark. The fact that we are opening tonight is terrifying.

  Let us only hope Broadway will take to it. The critics will not, of that I’m sure.

  November 13th

  Jayne Wrightsman was at her best working with her team of experts, fixing lights, deciding the placing of fabulous objects, and making plans for the opening of the Wrightsman Collection Exhibition. By the time I came out of the Museum of Modern Art, my spirits had lifted and I was more pleased with life than I had been before this latest theatrical debacle.

  November 14th

  Enjoyed a rare walk and even a spontaneous visit to the Frick collection. Here, in tranquillity, I enjoyed the primitives, the Bellini, the Goyas, and a Turner. I realized how my taste had veered away from the French and English eighteenth century which I used particularly to admire.

  At lunch Lincoln Kirstein was at his most epigrammatic and devastating, shooting down in flames everything sacred and sacrosanct. He sums up people brilliantly, gets the tone of a person’s talent, and is altogether rare. He described the contemporary American painters at the Met. as nothing, absolutely nothing, a fart without a smell. We laughed a lot and our lunch went on to 3:15.

  December 8th

  I don’t quite know why I have such a macabre interest in studying the obituaries in the newspapers, but it gives me a stab to learn that some actress whom I have not seen for forty years has joined the great majority. This morning I was saddened by the deaths of Eric Portman and Hugh Williams, two actors that I have known only a little but who have always been part of the current scene. I suppose the fact that they were both my contemporaries has given me this particular shock and cause for pause.

  December 12th

  A great dinner, followed by a little dance, given in her white, over-decorated house by Mary Lasker. It was a Democratic Party gala honoured by ex-President and Mrs Johnson. I suppose snobbery and propaganda make one alter one’s opinions, but having been revolted by Johnson during the time that his ugly face appeared every morning on the breakfast tray, I now thought him quite passable, and even with a certain charm and gentleness of manner. At the end of dinner he got up to make a speech in honour of Mary. It was done with grace. Naturally he has had a great deal of experience, but it was wonderful to see his mind working as he shut his eyes and decided what he was going to say. He rounded off long and complicated sentences with style.

  The evening should have been interesting for there were certainly fascinating people present — doctors, bankers, politicians and journalists. But there was also complete dross, and, unfortunately, the noise was appalling. I soon found myself drained of energy, and beat an early retreat.

  Reddish: Christmas Day

  Such a wonderful, enchanting view from the top of the Downs looking over towards Fonthill, as I drove out to my Christmas Day lunch with the Trees. It was a sunny day and the winter scene was strangely soft and welcoming in a haze of sweet-pea colours — pale buff, pale mauves, pale blues and rose. It was of simple, basic shapes; the distant woods were bare; a living sculpture.

  I realized what solace to the spirit I had been missing while in America. I was pleased with Anne’s highly civilized conversation; honest and funny. Anne is one of the best that England produces and I came away deeply satisfied with my happy outing.

  In the afternoon I read Enid Bagnold’s excellent autobiography. In the
book all her qualities are apparent; also her dislikeableness; she is not a nice person. But her honesty and strength of character are amazing, and I feel sorry that she should have spent so much time writing so few good plays.

  Her descriptions of past events reminded one of the Japanese film Rashomon where many different people tell varying versions of the truth. Enid’s version of certain events and happenings was not, I felt, the true one. But the book kept me riveted for three days. It is a valuable legacy for her to leave; an important and profound reportage in depth of a strange, remarkable, original and warped life.

  PHOTOGRAPHING MAE WEST

  January 1970

  On arrival in Hollywood at the huge 1920s cement apartment block which Mae West owns, I was surprised to find how small her personal quarters are. To begin with I was fascinated; white carpets, pale yellow walls, white pseudo-French furniture with gold paint, a bower of white flowers, huge ‘set’ pieces of dogwood, begonias, roses and stocks — all false.

  The piano was painted white with eighteenth-century scenes adorning the sides, a naked lady being admired by a monkey as she lay back on draperies and cushions. On the piano was a white, ostrich-feather fan, and heart-shaped, pink rose-adorned boxes of chocolates with nothing inside but the crinkled brown paper. A box of Kleenex was enclosed in a silver-lead box. Lamps were converted from huge Victorian china figures of lovers. There was a great display of photographs of Mae West retouched beyond human likeness all in silver frames. Dust was covering everything. In a nearby lavatory, for instance, a discarded massage table looked grey and it was only when I put my finger on it that I discovered the dark red, artificial leather beneath.