The Wandering Years (1922-39)

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The Wandering Years (1922-39) Page 10

by Cecil Beaton


  It was already late, but we talked on and on. I wondered where this funny little frump, so plain yet so alive, would have her dinner.

  I nearly missed mine. But what did it matter? I had greatly enjoyed being with a creative person. She’d inspired me with all sorts of notions for getting amusing textures by varnishing cheap brocades and canvas or taking photos of people reflected in piano tops. In fact, my head is buzzing with ideas which I must find time to realise.

  April 16th

  I mapped down little diagrams on the blocks at the office of photographs I’m going to take: heads of Nancy and Baba upside down or crown to crown like a Janus bifrons; double reflections; and other compositions, all very modern, inspired by the MacGregor.

  By persevering I have learnt lots of typing etiquette. One must not use the ‘&’ mark for ‘and’; one must place things on the paper in a certain way. Mindful of these things, I copied out a lot of statements.

  Miss Robertson has been telling me more about herself. She loves crossword puzzles. She would like a nice little car so that she could go off on her own and play golf. She was in a munitions factory during the war, and has worked ever since, though there is no essential need for her to do so. I suppose this routine must be a drug enabling her to go on and get through life. She has a flat of her own and is tremendously proud of it. Displayed in one room are masses of unexploded bombs from the last war. I laughed when informed of this, though neither she nor Mr Skinner thought it a bit funny that an old Scotch bird’s room should be decorated with bombs.

  In the lunch interval, I felt rather conscious of myself, with nothing to eat and being intellectual in the B.M. reading-room. But lunch is merely a matter of habit; one which, as soon as I drop it, will allow me to edify myself instead of wasting time and money in some bleak eating house. Of course, I could do as Miss Robertson does: she goes out and buys food, then eats it in the office.

  Perhaps my eternal readiness for tea is because I can’t eat lunch! But it’s a welcome break for everyone. We sit around while Miss Robertson spreads a dirty paper tablecloth on a desk. We chat and gossip, we drink her tannic acid. I derive a certain amusement from watching Schmiegelow rag poor Mr Skinner. Today they both ragged me, talking in the most mercenary way of how, if they were able to paint, they could make ‘cash’! Mr Skinner, I’m sure, is conscious of every farthing he spends. He’s hard-working and business-like, but without any imagination. He must be all of fifty and, I suppose, as poor as a church mouse.

  MY SISTERS AS MODELS

  April 18th (Sunday)

  I was feverish in my bedroom doing designs — things I’d thought about in spite of the office humdrum. Bright sunshine flooded through the window. I could almost hear the buds popping open on the delicate trees.

  Reggie, Nancy and Baba burst in on me, ‘Spring is here!’ Away we went in the open car, greedy for air and sun. We would pick large branches of fresh green. What could be nicer than foliage in a London house? Father didn’t want to come along, which was just as well: he makes everything humdrum. He says, ‘Very nice,’ when you ask him if these primroses aren’t splendid. But he doesn’t even mean that.

  Reggie drove. It would have been an anxiety for me to find the way. During the past week, after office hours, I’ve been going out with Reggie to drive in Regent’s Park. But though I feel more confident at the wheel now, the sense of impotence is still there.

  At last we reached a country lane and climbed into an orchard which was a fairy haze of blossom. We broke off huge swags of flowering apple, then gathered spidery, green shoots out of hedges.

  We streaked back home, the car laden with springtime plunder. What a satisfactory feeling to think one has got something for nothing! I jammed the branches in an accumulator tank and lugged it into the green and gold drawing-room.

  At lunch, N. and B. were most unwilling when I expressed my intention of photographing them this afternoon. I asserted rudely that I hadn’t taken any pictures of them in three months, and they ought to be damned willing as I would very likely get the results into some papers. I got my way. Baba irritated me by keeping a perpetual eye on the clock. I had definite compositions with the love birds in mind. We got all gadgets, electric light, camera background, etc., ready in the conservatory. But Reggie had impertinently taken it upon himself to feed my birds directly after lunch, and as they were no longer hungry they wouldn’t come on to Nancy’s hand.

  Hastily, I improvised other shots. I took one of Baba in front of the blossom. She looked romantically disdainful in her silver Italian dress. Nancy, by contrast, seemed plain as sago pudding this afternoon. Both girls were exasperated and very grudging. Undaunted, I worked with eager determination, experimenting with the startling highlights given off by the mackintosh background.

  We were having a tea interval in the pink room when, to my great surprise, Boy arrived. He has remembered, at long last, to bring the shell flowers under the dome. I am glad he has let me buy them from him.

  Boy couldn’t stay long. Hurriedly, I showed him my new designs to see if he liked them, which he said he did.

  Afterwards more photos. N. and B. were outraged, Baba so annoyed that she nearly wept. I coaxed and cajoled, yet wouldn’t bribe them. I used to pay them 6d. per picture, but that is expensive and photography already costs me much too much as it is. I got a waxwork effect with Boy’s glass dome placed over Baba’s head. She knelt down with the back of the dome on her shoulders and the front resting on the edge of the table. At first her breath clouded the glass, but I told her not to breathe for a while. She nearly asphyxiated.

  April 20th

  With business slack and S. off to a wedding, there was hardly anything to do.

  In the lunch interval I hared off to Selfridge’s to get the negatives of Sunday’s photographs. Would they be as good as I had hoped?

  They were; they were very good, especially N. and B. having two heads each from reflections in the piano lid. The glass dome was also a success, and the mackintosh material may well become my favourite exotic background. The only drawback is that the negatives are so thick. They’ll take an eternity to enlarge.

  Being near home, I decided to have lunch for a change. Lunch was late; everyone seemed on edge. The house is under-staffed, and with Mama still ill in bed the servants complain about ‘extra work’.

  Aunt Jessie was there. She provoked me by saying in front of Loins[31] that Nurse is an old fidgeting fusser. All the servants repeat to one another anything nasty which they hear people saying about them. Not long ago, I had a row with Nurse because she showed Loins something she happened to find. The ‘something’ was a design of mine, and on the back I had written a list of Loins’ faults in the hope that my mother would have an opportunity to tell him about them one day. I never intended anything so crude as for him to be shown the list. How he must have quivered! Anyhow, he seldom makes the same mistakes now. There were about twenty faults put down, things like: ‘Do not omit to say Sir or Madam or Miss as the case may be; ask politely if people would care for a little more; claret to be decantered; cheese and butter not to be plonked down on the table as in a boarding house, etc.’

  Modom became very annoyed about my telling her to ‘Shh,’ and told my mother I was getting bad tempered of late. I suppose I am. It’s living among such uncongenial people. I can’t abide this haphazard way they live: they let things slide, they never ‘do’ or think.

  After a rushed curry I bussed back to the Kings way office, where I spent the afternoon knifing and scraping my negatives. It was a hot day and a sticky job. My eyes ached, but I had to retouch for enlarging tonight.

  Immediately on arrival home, I brought out all the gadgets and basins of acid. It was still too light to start before dinner, as I cannot make my room dark enough with the curtains drawn.

  Enlarging is messy and nauseating. But the job had to be done. Gradually I worked up enthusiasm. The results were so good that I went on and on and on until about two o’clock in the morni
ng. Then my mother came from her bedroom to tell me to shut up, I was waking the whole house with the running water.

  I felt cockahoop with the results. Till now, my pictures have been ordinary attempts to make people look as beautiful as possible. But these are fantastic and amusing. They strike me as being an achievement — something personal.

  April 22nd

  Instead of lunch, I went into the National Gallery. Of course it was a 6d. day: it always is when I go there. But it was worth my money to watch the odd old hags that make what they think are copies of the pictures. I sat in front of El Greco for ten minutes. I like Bronzino’s Venus, Psyche and Cupid more than ever. I hurried through the Gainsborough and Reynolds room.

  Back at the office, I looked out of the window until the ostentatious building opposite got on my nerves. There is a lump of stone on its summit: a Victorian goddess with Victorian children. On top of the goddess’ head is a lightning conductor!

  April 23rd

  I was given a clean one pound for my week’s wages! And I’m happy to get that!

  April 24th (Saturday)

  Half-day at the office; I wished I needn’t have come.

  Schmiegelow keeps telling me I’ll have a great deal to do when he drafts out a circular about some ebonite. But Miss Robertson and Mr Skinner insist the letter will never be drafted, as it has already been put off from day to day for nearly a year.

  Back home I worked for five hours on some stage designs I had got an inspiration about, but my shoulder blades ached so much I felt I must go out: so I rang up Billie Williams[32] and asked him to come and dine at the Eiffel Tower. I like that place because the food, though expensive, is terrific. Also, the people who go there are smart, arty, and the set I must get in with. I knew that I was going to spend a lot of money, but it would be worth it and I would damned well enjoy it.

  Billie came to the house first, as I wanted him to see my new work. I hungered for praise, and certainly couldn’t hope for it from my father. He would probably have said, ‘What’s this? Which way up? Who is it?’ Billie liked my Macgregor-esque photographs. ‘I can tell they’re by you.’

  Reggie drove us down to the Eiffel Tower. The whole of London swarmed with people up to see the football final. The hooligans were already half drunk, and one man spat at the car as we drove by.

  The Tower was fairly empty. I felt slightly apprehensive, as the waiters are apt to be rude to people who are not habitués. We settled down at a good table, smoking Russian cigarette after Russian cigarette. I enjoyed the unflashy surroundings — dark Victorian ferns in polished brass containers, and a high-spirited canary in a cage hung from the ceiling by a wire spring.

  The people were dull to begin with: very few celebrities, except for Augustus John, who sat very seriously wine-bibbing.

  I jawed Billie about the importance of being given a chance to get on and do what one wanted to do. But one had to be strong-willed to overcome difficulties. What I didn’t say was that I thought Billie most admirably placed now. He seems to have won his way into J. C. Squire’s heart, and will soon be his right-hand man. Squire has already got Billie’s book, Discussions on Travel, accepted by a publisher. I feel terribly envious.

  We drank a lot of brandy. I became slightly tipsy, but the bill sobered me up.

  April 25th (Sunday)

  My father wanders in boredom about the house. I am perpetually hiding from him.

  I sneaked off to Wyndham’s[33] and found a small tea party made up of old people. Lady W. was vivacious. She wore a little coatee of gold cloth, so effectively theatrical it looked as if liquid metal had been poured over her arms and back. A Mr Somerville performed on the piano and addressed everybody in an involved way. Wyndham took me by the arm and whispered for me to remain till the others had gone.

  We sat in front of the fire. She said, ‘Now I’m going to talk to you like a mother.’ Take it from her, this office work would do me no harm whatsoever. I’d get an inkling into business, which would be an enormous help. We spoke about my designs. I complained of Cochran treating me rather off-handedly. Wyndham said she’d like very much to help me and get me introduced to some theatre people.

  I listened gratefully. I thought, ‘If only I had her courage.’

  Poor W. has been stricken with a kind of elephantiasis disease, as a result of which her face and hands have become tragically swollen. Even her tongue is enlarged, making it difficult for her to articulate. This, for someone who was so exquisite on the stage, must be doubly hard. But she rises above her physical disabilities, enjoys seeing people and gives a tea dance every Sunday. Who could not love her? She has such a big heart.

  Admirable is Wyndham’s attempt to keep up with the times. To be modern, she explained, was her aim. New things came as a bit of a shock to begin with, but she soon got accustomed to like them. I commented on her gold coat. She said she would also have liked to wear black satin trousers caught in at the heels, but people would have said she was too old. W. showed great interest when I told her I had taken it upon myself to decorate our new house. She intends to have hers done out next year, as she realises how old-fashioned the place is. I said, ‘Yes, old-fashioned. But I like it because it’s personal.’ This was not mere politeness: there is, of course, a lot of rubbish, but it’s unique, interesting and funny. Historic souvenirs of Sir Charles’s stage triumphs mingle with affectionately signed photographs of celebrities. Here and there, too, are some fine bits of glass and china. Yet, determined to be modern, Wyndham insisted upon seeing our coloured ceilings and bottomless beds. She is coming along on Friday.

  April 26th

  I took an enormous, cumbersome portfolio with all my drawings in it to the office. Billie had arranged to get me a look-in with Squire. I was nervous at the prospect and felt sick all morning. Miss Robertson helped to work me up, so that I was in a state of panic by noon when I left to go to the Mercury.

  After a little difficulty I found the place. I was shown up to the holy of holies where Squire sat trying hard to be natural and hearty. He looked like an old bird’s nest, but had the eyes of a mole. He enthused over my pictures, kept using the same adjectives. Billie helped the situation with his free and easy manner, blurting out useful suggestions. I had nothing suitable for reproduction in the London Mercury, but Squire said he’d try to get me a start with book jackets or illustrations. Altogether, he was charming, though nothing definite was fixed upon.

  After the interview, Billie took me to a chop house in the Strand for lunch.

  April 27th

  I am getting much better on the typewriter, and don’t have to strain so much to avoid mistakes. Schmiegelow was beginning to get annoyed with me for wasting his office paper. It seemed to me that he made a ridiculous fuss about the placing of things correctly in a business letter, but now that I have learnt to do as I am told, it is all rather dull. Before, I had great fun placing things artistically. I created beautiful effects by underlining words with spots, by making long and short dashes and using pretty asterisks.

  But this evening, as luck would have it, I had to copy out a long letter on the typewriter just as I was about to leave, and because I wanted to do it quickly, I made mistake after mistake. The first time the letter was read through and checked, I’d left out two lines. The thing had to be done perfectly for some bloody judge. I got desperate. I went on and on, throwing sheet after sheet into the waste-paper basket until after seven o’clock.

  No wonder I was exasperated with Loins for giving me no wine at dinner.

  AT THE EIFFEL TOWER

  April 28th

  The Chenil Gallery was crowded for the Sitwell recital: not a seat to be had. Allanah[34] and I stood, along with masses of other thrilled and expectant people. Half the audience seemed nicely arty and the other half merely revoltingly arty.

  The poems started. Accompanied by modern music, they were spoken through a megaphone that had been shoved through a hole in a painted representation of a face.

  I liked W
alton’s music. I liked the poems, too, but felt restless and couldn’t properly settle down to understanding them. Also, the effect got spoilt by distractions — arty people moving about, arty people in the outer room talking too loud. In the end, the programme seemed much too long and monotonous. But the reception couldn’t have been more friendly and enthusiastic. The Sitwells gave repeated encores.

  Afterwards we all went on to the Eiffel Tower, or at least the mob of rather arty people that Allanah moves about with did. Everyone behaved hilariously in the car. Allanah drove so casually that we nearly had two bad accidents. Zita,[35] Baby[36] and a Rosemary Somebody left us before we ever reached the Tower, but the party was still quite large.

  The Tower crowd had decided to be social tonight. They shouted, calling to acquaintances by their Christian names. At our table sat: Allanah, Inez Holden, vivacious and alert, though she annoys me; Curtis Moffat, who affects to be pompously middle-aged, Dick Wyndham, whom I like now. Dick is crude and unfinicky. At first this seems bad manners or conceit; but he’s good-hearted, generous and rich. He ordered some magnums of champagne.

  There was a lot of trafficking between tables. A little old man sat with us, name unknown but intelligent and without a wrinkle on his fat, baby face. Michael Sevier got plastered, looking a sight with his dead-white face and sparkling eyes. He kept saying indecent things. Allanah had two alternate responses: she showed shock, or else she giggled weakly. It surprised me to see Lord and Lady Milford-Haven at the Tower but I hear they often come for a good guzzle and drink of wine.

  Tallulah[37] arrived late, went to every table and was quick-witted at each. She has developed her personality to such an extent that she always seems natural, but it is only acting.

  Augustus John became somewhat playful, making sporadic grabs at some silly little idiots dressed up as Sapphists. There was a whole group of these young women, all with their hair cut off, tailored suits, collars and cuffs, watch chains and gardenia buttonholes. They tried to talk and move like ventriloquist’s dolls.

 

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