by Cecil Beaton
March 1st
Stella has not been a diplomat’s wife for nothing. She can come out with some very strong and unpopular opinions. I love her dearly and am thrilled to have had this remarkable couple come back into my life.
We looked at scrap albums; pictures of the highest life in London, shooting at Dunrobin and Drumlanrig; pictures from India, Bangkok, the Dolomites, Venice, all over the world.
It was midnight and Miguel said how much he had enjoyed my helping him to revive the past and to remember so many forgotten friends. With the sad knowledge that I must leave on the morrow, I came to bed.
This had been the high spot of my journey. I have loved being in a very simple but highly cultivated home with such an enlightened, wise elderly-young couple.
March 2nd
The car came to take me to Las Barrancas, the home of the de Hoz’s. The rough ride through the mountains was a liver-shaker, and as we drove in circles ever higher we came into the clouds and could only intermittently see the huge, pine-planted terrain created by Dulce and Eduardo Martinez de Hoz. They have sliced off the top of a mountain in order to place their house on a plateau, and for twenty-five years have been creating a fantastic abode far from all the irritations of present-day civilization.
Eduardo de Hoz also has a huge ranch not far from a fashionable seaside place, but they both prefer their mountain fortress.
Duke’s huge, childlike, sad eyes greeted me at the door. It was a poor day, no sun; one would see nothing and she had hoped we would go for a ride on horse-back. ‘But come, let’s have tea.’ Dulce looked marvellous in her riding clothes with a heavenly blue stock. She was a most alluring châtelaine and her husband wreathed in smiles of love. Later the sun streaked through the clouds and we set off, four of us, on horses, with two gauchos, one in front and one behind, both dressed in black with large black plate hats. We made a long tour of the property, the horses trained to go up and down the rocky mountainside with never a false step.
Dulce, as I was now able to call her (I was Beaton to begin with) looked like a nineteen-year-old girl wearing a broad little mushroom of a hat tied under the chin. She gesticulated violently with a long simple gloved hand. She is an excellent horsewoman and adores going out to see every aspect of their domain. We returned tired but tingling with health for a rest before dinner at which the conversation was mostly about the Peron regime. Food beyond criticism, cold consommé, local salmon trout, chicken in herbs, a marron soufflé with raspberry sauce. Dulce wore a Grès dress of bright rose red, green and purple which emphasized her innate grace of movement. In French on the ceiling of the salon is the inscription: Soyez vous-même (Be yourself). The court around her adore her for being herself as she talks to them in a rather deep, gruff voice. I have become quite enamoured of her. We looked at excellent slides, taken by Eduardo of the mountain as it was before building started and the various phases of the last twenty-five years. ‘And now we all go to bed,’ Dulce said. ‘It is lots of sleep that keep you in such excellent health, shape and spirits.’
RETURN TO RIO
March 7th
I hated arriving at Rio and discovering I was to stay at the Copacabana Hotel, because the Moreira Salles’ home was still uninhabitable. It was a relief, however, to find that I was no longer in the same rooms and that the things I had left behind had been put out in an orderly way in the new surroundings. Roses and little cakes and wine were there to welcome me, but there is something horrible about this hotel.
Coming back to Rio I realized some of the differences between Argentina and Brazil. The latter country has no elegant buildings, no culture, the future is everything. The Argentine has not developed since the Peron era, but none the less life is more agreeable. There are less poor, the food is excellent, particularly Argentine beef. Here in Rio, Elizinha says, with no regrets, ‘There are no restaurants.’ In fact ‘no regrets’ is a typically Brazilian attitude.
Copacabana Hotel swimming pool
How is it that, hating the rich as much as I do, I find myself in a dump like this? One’s eyes never rest on anything beautiful. One’s mind never has an intelligent thought; all is dross, and expensive beyond belief I am sure. I spend much time closing my eyes to the horrors of the people who live here and do all the things I dislike.
During the winter in England I said how much I wanted warm sun on my shoulders. I got a bit of it this morning, but at what a price! Screaming kids disobeying their ‘Babas’; Americans, raucous Brazilians, all smoking, drinking, covering themselves with oil, not one beauty in sight. I come up to my room longing to read, but I dare not for fear of headaches. This is a bad phase which I trust will pass; never for many years have I felt that time passes so slowly.
March 9th
Walter Moreira Salles had told me that our proposed air trip could be done in one day: impossible, at least in this heat. At last we arrived in the pretty eighteenth-century town of Ouro Preto, looking Bavarian with baroque churches and elaborate façades; rows of houses. I thought it expedient to do some sightseeing before we broke for lunch. It was a joy to see so much that was pretty and picturesque, and worth the effort of the journey. But walking up and down these cobblestone streets in the midday sun was very exhausting, and after three-quarters of an hour, I was sweating and worn out. We ate excellent chicken on a terrace overlooking cedar-coloured, tiled roofs on which vultures were sitting surfeited with their morning meals of dead animals.
More sightseeing, St Francis’ church, very late in period, but placed in a dominant and imposing position against the stormy sky, a baroque church of bright gold on gold, the sort of thing that one sees in Spain, Mexico, Bolivia, but this one in mint condition. Fountains, senate houses, ornate windows, beautiful, massive Spanish doors of bold mouldings; colleges, museums, all of a piece.
We drove on through the mountains to another eighteenth-century town, Marianna, where many illustrious poets and artists lived and the march composer Souza was born. The menacing clouds turned to rain and we just made it into the museum before a deluge started that continued for the rest of the day.
The Hotel Rey in Bello Horizonte was modern and congenial. There was a magical effect when two small, coloured pages showed me my room and as if carefully rehearsed, pushed aside a series of light aluminium shutters, then slid back the windows on to a night filled with the lights of the town. A fish dinner in my room, and early night in preparation for another strenuous day tomorrow.
March 10th
In the distance the hill town of Congonhas has reminded us of Italy. It is dominated by the white church with twin towers remarkable for its very fine carving, done in the eighteenth century by a cripple. This man also fashioned the statues on the church, and despite his physical handicaps and difficulties had managed to achieve something that is vibrant and magical and a great wonder. The skies tortured with wisps of cloud intensified the grey of the statues and the simple embellishment of the church.
March 11th
Elizinha Salles said the political situation was much better; that the economy had improved fantastically under the present government, but that there was a very dangerous group of young rebels who were being incited by older men to create publicity and havoc. It was necessary for them to have guards everywhere outside the house, wherever Walter went, and the children were here in the patio playing a game of croquet with the bodyguard.
Elizinha invited me to see their newly decorated house and the garden. A lot of their pictures and furniture had come originally from churches. She explained that most Brazilians could only buy their furniture from Sears and Roebuck catalogues and therefore owned nothing good. I was very impressed by her carpets and some of the jacaranda wood carved by the Portuguese in the manner of Chippendale; a lot of blue and white Lowestoft china came from Macao.
Part VII: Farewell to Old Friends, 1971-4
Reddish: April 1971
This Good Friday was as cold, raw, windy, wintry and bleak as it is possible to be. Nothing to do bu
t stay indoors. Fortunately for me Alan Tagg was staying, and we took the opportunity to change the furniture and effects in the dining-room, winter-garden, and other rooms. Alan has a wonderful eye and sees things that are no longer valid and that I, through living with them daily, miss.
Easter Saturday brought out the sun, and people’s spirits were revived. Alan went for a walk before breakfast, and the day was spent out-of-doors discussing with Smallpeice the construction of a lake — of all things — across the road which David Offley says he can fashion for us. Then, at Alan’s suggestion, we went for a walk ‘to see the village’, the cottage gardens, and the spring that bubbles so clearly and coldly to the watercress beds. Faces at windows were as interested in us as we were in them.
The wintry sun was now at the end of a long span of light. We watched a beautiful barn owl, dove-biscuit coloured with a huge wing-span; it flew along the valley, flittered, soared, prospected, then landed; it walked, it rested, then was on the wing again. We saw a rabbit hurrying over a steep hill to safety.
Alan’s quick-as-a-flash eye discovered some blue flowers that were rare, with dotted leaves.
EDITH EVANS
May 27th
I was full of expectancy when, after an idyllic sunlit drive through masses of white May blossom, we arrived at the theatre in Chichester.
It is odd how one can tell from a distance if something is out-of-the-ordinary; if there is some crisis. We noticed a huge olive-green Rolls-Royce full of women. Over one of them in the back seat the chauffeur was bending solicitously as if pampering a child or an old invalid. The profile was familiar: surely it was Edith Evans! Was she being told to hurry and get into her dressing-room? Wasn’t she cutting it fine? Surely she would prepare for her performance long before this? A rather ‘hippy’-looking fan stood by the open door of the motor waiting perhaps to ask her if she would oblige with an autograph. But very slowly, as if in a funeral procession, the Rolls moved off.
I was very baffled. It must be too late for her to be driving away from the theatre? We went into the dark, dreary theatre, looked at Alan’s set and were given a programme, out of which fell a slip saying that owing to the indisposition of Dame Edith Evans the part of Charlotte would be taken by her understudy.
The play disappointed. There was much to criticize about the direction, but really the whole evening was ruined by the absence of Dame Edith. Glamour had gone, star quality was missed, and her understudy had none of Edith’s charm or wit. I closed my eyes and could imagine exactly how Edith would play the part, how she would get her laughs and give it pith.
Anna Calder-Marshall in the interval told me that Edith had had a nervous ‘crise’ at the thought of facing an audience. The weekend had been for her a long time away from the stage. She was only happy if acting continuously. Sundays were a trial. By Monday evening she had worked herself up to such a pitch of nerves that a doctor had been summoned and in her dressing-room had told her that she should not go on. She had been rather odd at rehearsals. She hates first nights; the telegrams, flowers, messages, excitement. The management kept from her when the first night was to be. On the morning of the opening, her chauffeur had telephoned the theatre to say that Dame Edith had not ordered him for the evening. Was she not wanted at the theatre? ‘Yes, of course! How important that you enquired, but don’t let her know it is a first night.’ Edith had — according to Eileen who had seen the first performance with Alan — appeared very tense, but the audience had applauded her every word. It had been a personal triumph, probably her last. What we had witnessed quite by chance outside the theatre this evening was poor Edith’s final exit from the stage.[10] She is eighty-three, is wobbly on her feet and getting a bit deaf. At rehearsals she is apt to forget her lines and in order to ‘cover up’ will invent some excuse for an interruption. ‘What is this circular cushion doing here? It’s nothing but a designer’s peccadillo!’ Then she will ask the prompter, ‘Where was I?’ and, given the missing words, will continue. Although she is still able to play bits in films and television, it is the end of a long and wonderfully productive theatre career.
Gladys Cooper, who is a year or so older than Edith, was unsympathetic when she heard what had happened. ‘Her trouble is that she thinks too much about the theatre. She should go out and forget it, but she’s so ingrained and self-centred, she has no interests except her performance. I have my grandchildren and all sorts of other interests to keep me going, and I don’t think about my part once I’m out of the theatre. I don’t think about myself at all if I can help it. A young man rang me up for an interview on “The Psychology of Acting”. I said I didn’t know anything about it. I was too busy housekeeping and living my life; and as far as the theatre is concerned, I feel jolly lucky that I’ve got a good job.’ Gladys has always been a realist. She has never treated the theatre too seriously and this has stood her in good stead.
Reddish: May 30th
A big change has been brought about by a huge prehistoric mechanical digger which has bitten into the soggy marshland at the bottom of the field opposite the front door, and has created a lake with an island all for my very own benefit.
It is extraordinarily exciting to see, at night, from my bedroom window the remnants of the light in the sky reflected in the winding ribbon of water. It brings a whole new interest to life here, the element of water.
Even in the appallingly muddy condition with which the landscape is at the moment disfigured, I can tell that this will be a lovely place to look at, with fish and all sorts of birds that are different from those on the terrace of the house. Already there are moorhens, ducks have visited and swans have been seen. As for the trout, it seems I could spend my old age being a fisherman. King Charles said these were the best trout in England.
The house itself is now seen proudly standing in a paved forecourt. Instead of a gravel path of uneven design, we have a very formal slice of green lawn with paving-stones coming to the edge of the box and the yews. It is a great improvement and is a delight not only to me but to passers-by. All that is needed now is some herb growing between the cracks of the stones and things like white foxgloves and valerian sprawling in clumps at the edges of the drive and steps.
Italy: June
A visit to where D’Annunzio lived was interesting; a whole complex of buildings, theatre, lecture hall, mausoleum, colonnades, arches, terraces, stairways, and not particularly inspiring gardens. The house where he actually worked beggars all description. To begin with, it was so dark, except for one room — the study — that one could hardly grope one’s way about. Through the gloom things looked fantastic and macabre; gold and black; oriental mixed with Florentine Renaissance and Victorian Danteism; dolls, Chinese figures, badly gilded plaster-casts, plaster-casts trimmed with jewels and draped with gold lame. It could be the eyrie of a black magician, or the heart’s desire of a raging faggot.
There were rows of encyclopaedias, thousands of books marked with his tags, chairs for reading and study at every point. He had enjoyed buying useless objects and would perhaps acquire forty pieces of junk all at one go. Because he was a small man, all the doorways were low and the rooms were small.
The airlessness, the slightly dusty veneer, and the smell of mothballs produced a sort of pain in the chest. After two hours photographing, I felt utterly and totally exhausted. I am not generally sensitive to vibrations and atmosphere, but this I felt was really rather evil. I cannot think why a film has not been made about D’Annunzio.
The whole place is now carefully and lovingly tended by an old man who was with the master for seventeen years. I am sure it will not be long before he is found dead on his master’s bed, or on a pile of embroidered cushions.
THE DEATH OF MARGARET CASE
September 1971
Margaret was my first friend in New York. I had arrived late for a large lunch at Condé Nast’s apartment and she was impressed that I had already seen the Grecos in the Hispano Museum. She showed a friendliness that few others did, an
d by degrees she became a very important person in my American life. She maddened me. I hated much that she said. Often her reactions showed that she did not understand what I really meant. But, my God, she was a hard-working friend. If I asked her to buy a dozen presents to take back to England, the telephone calls would continue until I was sorry I’d ever asked her. If I was in trouble she would be terribly upset. I remember when my career was threatened as a result of the Walter Winchell row, I was hard and metallic and difficult in the face of losing everything. She, the first to come round to my hotel room, sat weeping on a sofa. She realized, more than I did, what a blow had befallen me, and she was helpless to do anything for me.
Margaret was always the first person to telephone on my arrival in New York. She it was who got theatre tickets for me, reserved the table at the restaurant and was always ‘at the ready’ at the last minute.
Now she is dead. Perhaps in her melancholy she took an overdose, though, being a strong Roman Catholic, this does not seem likely; but whatever the reason, New York will never be the same for me. I will miss her more than I realize, and it says well for her that maybe twenty other people feel the same way.
