The Wandering Years (1922-39)

by Cecil Beaton

  Then I looked out of the window. In the garden below my host and hostess were gossiping. With them was a visitor. Garbo was sitting cross-legged on a white garden seat, smoking a cigarette held high in two definite fingers. I could not hear their conversation, but the Gouldings seemed animated, and Garbo wore a sort of Olympian smile with quizzically raised eyebrows and lowered lids.

  Garbo, too, was all in white, wearing a thick woollen sweater, shorts, and half an eggshell on her back-scraped hair. Her waxen complexion and her thighs were sunburnt to a rich biscuit colour.

  If a unicorn had suddenly appeared in the late afternoon light of this ugly, ordinary garden, I could have been neither more surprised nor more amazed by the beauty of this exotic creature.

  I dared not remain a peeping Tom. As I stood away from the window, my heart was thumping. Eventually I must have come out of my trance, for I quietly made my way down the turret-staircase in order, once more, to try the same damned telephone number.

  When I catwalked into the drawing-room, I found that the trio had already come indoors and were sitting on a sofa with glasses in their hands. Somewhat breathy with surprise, I gasped ‘Oh! Sorry,’ turned about on my heels and sharply left the room. Half-way up the stairs, I heard Marjorie’s Cockney voice tinklingly bidding me to come down and join them. This time I walked across the drawing-room on air.

  I was overcome by stagefright when the introduction was made, but finding myself confronted by such an understanding smile, something so sympathetic and encouragingly helpful, I was able to continue to breathe. A deep, familiar voice cooed at me, and bade me sit by her on a leather pouf.

  The situation became even more piquant when the voice showered me with compliments, ‘But you’re so yorng? How do you stay so yorng? Are you like one of those people that never grow up? I know a man who is fifty who still looks so yorng; and you’re so white. If only I could draw you like that.’ I held on to her hands.

  The voice continued, ‘You’re so beautiful.’ ‘But you’re so beautiful,’ was my lame reply. ‘No, you should never return a compliment.’ This was a moment of danger. But after a flicker of displeasure passed across those brows, my solecism was forgiven. It was accepted — while a huge tumbler of orange juice and champagne was proffered by Marjorie. It tasted like nectar.

  Even if Garbo would not allow me to give vent to eulogies I could now drink in every detail of her beauty. This marvellous gay creature had the sadness of Debureau, the clown — a resemblance accentuated by her pale face, her deep-set darkened eyelids, and skull cap. There was an incredible sensitivity about the modelling of the nose, as if she were able to savour exquisite perfumes too subtle for other human being to enjoy. Her lips, bereft of lipstick, were like polished shells, and when she gave her big generous smile, her teeth showed square and shining.

  Conversation then continued without any of the polite preliminaries of strangers. We talked nonsense as if we had known one another forever. ‘In short, these are the nicest Indian shoes I have ever seen in my life, and I have not seen many! But are we dressmakers that we talk of clothes?’

  The Gouldings must have been surprised to find that, from now on, they hardly existed in the presence of their guests. Yet they were not resentful. And although I could never be grateful enough to them for bringing about this meeting, how could they now be paid more than desultory deference?

  Garbo described a woman who had an oversize Adam’s apple, and how some men have such big ‘Ardumms arppless’ that they go up and down when they swallow. ‘Oh, it’s pathetic; how can you laugh at human beings?’

  We all moved to the bar for more nectar. On the way Garbo and I crab-walked with arms round each other’s waists, and much friendly hand squeezing. She pervaded a scent of new-mown hay, and of freshly-washed children. ‘Show Greta your hands,’ Marjorie piped. My hands were carefully scrutinised. Garbo said hers were kitchenette hands and laughed, ’I play the most sophisticated women without a manicure.’

  We all drank a great deal of this cold, refreshing, very intoxicating drink. Garbo was inspired to hop about the room gesticulating and giving spontaneous impersonations of grandiose actresses, quoting snatches of poetry or prose that came into her head.

  A huge vase of yellow roses freshly sprayed with water had been placed on the bar. ‘Oh, who put the dew on them?’ Garbo picked a rose and kissed it, fingered it with an infinite variety of caresses and raised it above her head. As she looked up at it, she intoned, ‘A rose that lives and dies and never again returns.’ Suddenly with wild eyes and a deep look of astonishment she asked, in her hushed ‘mystery’ voice, ‘How is one to know?’ She supplied the answer, ‘je ne sais pas,’ then burst into laughter apologising for her accent. ‘Oh, my poor few words that I know of French!’ Then like a celestial parrot she repeated, ‘For thee and thine’ (pronounced with a thick Scandinavian ‘Th’); and the German for silk shirt.

  We were bidden by Marjorie to partake of the collation appetisingly laid out in the enforced absence of the servants. ‘Och! Lobster Americaine!’ The spontaneous picnic was applauded. The parrot kept repeating the words ‘Lobster Americaine’ and made them sound extremely comic. She helped me to lettuce. ‘I’m no hausfrau,’ she said, but did an imitation of a dainty lady with little finger perched in air; this dainty lady then started to embroider a table napkin, before becoming extremely interested in the sex of two cold chickens.

  We all ate enormously. Talking of the food of different countries it became apparent that Garbo has a highly sensitised palate, with an uncanny instinct for the most sophisticated tastes.

  Suddenly something untoward has happened. The air is electric. Eddie is severely reprimanded. It seems he has said something insensitive, and unsuitable. Garbo has a rooted dislike of ‘loose language’ — slang such as ‘honey’ or ‘swell’ — and cannot understand educated people wanting to talk like the electrician and the ‘prop’ man. Worst of all to her are schoolboy jokes, particularly those to do with the posterior portions of the anatomy. Eddie has idiotically proclaimed that if Garbo didn’t do his bidding as director he’d turn her upside down and give her a smacking where she sits upon. Fortunately this tiff quickly passed off and Garbo was asked if she would like to go upstairs and see my photographs of Ashcombe where I wished she would come and live for ever. The parrot replied, ‘Absolutely Adolphe.’

  ‘Are you happy?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s so easy to say Yes.’

  ‘And you?’

  She sighed. ‘Tomorrow I got to work with a lot of people who are dead. It’s so sad. I’m an onlooker. I’ve passed being active in life. It’s not a question of time and age — but it’s just what you are yourself. One doesn’t do the things one doesn’t want to do.’

  Twilight had passed; the curtain breezed in by the window. ‘Is that a ghost? Ssh!’ We ran downstairs and the hilarity continued. We all danced to the ‘rardio’. Garbo in imitation of Douglas Fairbanks swung from the cross beam and Spanish rafters. Marjorie, as light as thistledown, did a ballroom dance. Then in turn we did improvisations to Strauss waltzes, Rachmaninoff, The Lost Chord and Wunderbar. Garbo, as a policeman, arrested me for some importunity. The lights were turned out and our bacchanalia became wilder in the firelight.

  Suddenly the dream was over. It was time for Garbo to leave. It was very late, daylight had reappeared, and she had to be at the studio in a few hours. She was at the wheel in a rather shabby, big motor car. We put our hands through the windows. I was due to leave California, but if she would see me again, I would stay. ‘Can’t I come and eat spinach with you tomorrow — no today — at the studio at the lunch interval?’ ‘No.’ Surely this cannot be the end? Shall we never meet again? Will we be able to communicate in some way? In desperation I seized hold of a feather duster with a long handle, a curious object that was lying by her side. ‘Can I keep this as a memento?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then this is Goodbye?’

  ‘
Yes, I’m afraid so. C’est la vie!’

  The Gouldings were rather too baffled by the evening to talk about it. I could hardly believe what had happened. The only concrete proof was the yellow rose which she had kissed, and which I now took up the turret stairs to keep pressed between the pages of my diary.

  Part XIV: Looking Back, 1933, 1934 and 1935

  September 1933, London

  Looking back on this year, the most important event was Nancy’s wedding. Her fiancé Hugh[60] has pale blue Hanoverian eyes and clipped speech and brusque manner; and at first it was difficult to get used to the idea of his being a member of the family. And now Baba is engaged to be married to Alec Hambro and life begins to empty for my parents since Reggie seldom gets leave from the Flying Corps (thank heavens he seems to have found his niche in the air!) I will have to try and supply more fun for them.

  REGGIE

  October 16th, London

  This evening, at eleven o’clock Reggie was killed by an underground train.

  It had been a pleasant enough day. I puttered the morning away, answering letters, sending off photographs and doing odd jobs. At lunch, I told Christabel McLaren that Nancy was going to have a child. Christabel then confided with great amusement, ‘I’m forty-five and I’m going to have another baby, too.’

  In the afternoon, I went riding in Richmond Park with Peter. Then there was Sybil Colefax’s dinner party for Mona Williams. And, after a night club, I took Doris home.

  When I returned very late, there was still a light in the hall. Who could be up at this hour? I found Baba waiting in the glare of the yellow Italian lamp. She looked pale, her skin shiny. She said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come in at last. Reggie has had an accident. He’s been killed.’

  I felt sinisterly unmoved. I listened calmly while Baba related what she knew. Mummie and Daddy had been wakened after midnight by a reporter from the Daily Mail. In fact, Mum had wakened with such a start at the sound of gruff voices below that, in snatching for the electric light, she knocked it over. The reporter confided to Baba that Reggie was dead. In front of Mummie, he simply said there had been an accident. Daddy, accompanied by Manley[61], hurried off to the hospital to identify the body. But now Mum knew the truth.

  My first regret was that I had paid so little attention to Reggie for such a long time. I’d been off-hand and busy; and since we had little in common, I seldom even saw him. The last time was yesterday (today I’d only heard him calling for Manley). I’d been opening and reading letters, taking little notice of his questions as he hovered about the desk.

  I said, ‘I do feel badly about not being nicer to him.’

  Baba replied, ‘Reggie was so different from the rest of us.’

  We stood in the hall, talking emptily. I couldn’t believe that I felt so unmoved. Then poor Mummie came down the stairs, weeping bitterly. Her face was distorted from crying.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, the poor boy.’ Mum kept blaming herself, overwhelmed with remorse for having scolded him last week because he went out too much. At the same time, she felt guilty for having let him go out again tonight: ‘Oh, if I had only made him stay in! He was here to lunch, and afterwards he went out. We passed on the stairs and I never saw him again.’ She broke down in another flood of tears.

  I went upstairs to see Daddy. He lay in bed, unable to sleep. Some of his false teeth were out. The blankets looked rough and unattractive. Daddy wasn’t weeping, yet seemed incapable of taking in the situation. He coughed a lot, explaining all over again about the accident. He said that, when he had identified the body, Reggie looked calm in spite of gashes cut on his face. He had apparently fallen in front of a train and been dragged along.

  I thought, ‘Dear Daddy, what a nightmare ordeal for you. Reggie was your favourite son; you’d been such friends.’

  Baba and I went on talking for some time afterwards. Then I wrote this diary entry, sitting cold-bloodedly calm in bed.

  I am thinking now of all the days Reggie and I spent together. We grew up in great intimacy, fighting a lot but really devoted. It was only later that we drifted apart. I felt shy of him as a grown-up. When he joined the Flying Corps and made new friends, we had few interests in common.

  Now that I am less surprised at the terrible news and my horrifying reaction to it, I begin to feel the emotion and the reality. I begin to realise that I won’t ever again hear Reggie calling Becky, telephoning to young ladies or talking to Manley in a plummy voice.

  I feel full of regret and guilt for having been so selfish, for not trying to enter into his world.

  Recently, I noticed how much less hairy Reggie’s hands were than mine. I think of his wristwatch and his fingernails...

  October 17th

  I awoke early. Nancy had to be telephoned before she read the newspapers: in her present ‘condition’ she must not have any unnecessary shock.

  Time moved slowly. Reports of the accident in newsprint convinced me of the undeniable fact. Mummie lay in bed, a quivering, weeping pulp. She’d been unable to sleep for a minute. Her head ached, her teeth and cheeks ached. I felt desperately sorry for her. I began now to react myself. A lump gathered in my throat. My eyes swelled. I could not keep back a stream of tears, wept quietly over breakfast while Daddy remained calm.

  October 19th, Ashcombe

  It is all over. I’ll try to write about the events of the past three days, which seem like so many weeks.

  Hardly ever in my life have I wanted the clock to move more quickly. At every moment, I kept waiting impatiently for the next thing to happen.

  Where had Reggie been? It was necessary to get on the telephone and discover his whereabouts on Wednesday evening. He had left the Dennis Bradley cocktail party with two men. Each was contacted in turn, but could give no news, except to say that Reggie hadn’t been tight and seemed in good spirits.

  Daddy went off to hear the details of the accident. I taxied to Dennis Bradley’s and back, but Dennis had little to tell me about Reggie’s last movements. Telegrams and letters began to arrive. I answered each as soon as it came. The morning was still young, yet so much had happened since seven-thirty; indeed, since Reggie’s death barely twelve hours previously.

  I heard the click of a car door outside. Manley announced the Smileys. Nancy and I wept on one another’s shoulders. Somehow I tried to work with Miss Joseph on an article. It was impossible to concentrate. Then Daddy returned, but could give us no further details except to say there would be an inquest on Friday morning.

  The afternoon and evening papers began to appear, with photographs of Reggie in them. Time crawled. The house seemed cold as I wandered from room to room. The doctor came to see Mummie. I, too, went to bed, where it was warmer. I tried to get on with the article but failed. At dinner, Baba showed no emotion; Daddy continued to remain calm.

  The night was bad for Mummie, who shook in all her limbs. Her hands trembled like an old lady’s. Aunt Cada kept watch by her.

  Next morning, Daddy and I arrived early for the inquest. We waited anxiously, making attempts at conversation with those who were to appear — the Bradleys, Jeanne Stourton, a Captain Spencer and Mrs O’Brien, who was one of Reggie’s best friends.

  Mrs O’Brien spoke of Reggie’s eye trouble and continuous ‘blackouts’, as he called them. Reggie had had one only last weekend in her drawing-room. And, in fact, on Wednesday morning at home, just twelve hours before he died, he’d had another on his way out of the bath, coming a ‘purler’ on the bathroom floor. That surely was what must have happened while he waited for an underground train home. Reggie would have been the least likely person to kill himself. He’d never been depressed, always bubbling with high spirits and taking life so easily. He never worried or thought of any time but the present.

  The Coroner’s Court was cold and dreary. We sat on benches of orange-stained wood. Our anxiety became even more prolonged, as we had at first to listen to another case concerning a young labourer who, for no reason but that he was ‘tired of life
’, had hanged himself from a tree. The victim had left a goodbye letter of explanation to his parents. The coroner went calmly and logically through these facts, in a cold voice. Dispassionately he aimounced the verdict: ‘Suicide while of unsound mind.’

  At last it was our turn. Daddy took the witness stand, answering formal questions about the ‘deceased man’.

  The coroner asked, ‘Did he enjoy his life in the Flying Corps?’ Daddy, as though his life depended on the answer, replied fervently and poignantly, ‘He loved it.’ The words gave me an abrupt shock. After so much formality and lack of emotion, we were now participating in a human tragedy.

  Daddy did his piece beautifully, clearly, quickly and dramatically. I felt proud of him, as the strain must have been enormous.

  A doctor was now called. Yes, he had examined the corpse. Death had been instantaneous, from multiple causes. No alcohol was found in the stomach. A long list of injuries was now read out. No part of the body, it seems, had been spared.

  The engine driver testified. ‘At eleven o’clock I was driving my train into Piccadilly Station. About seventy yards from the tunnel opening stood a man without a hat. He was about a yard from the edge of the platform, looking straight in front of him across the tracks. As I came within a few feet of him, he raised his hands to his head and dived in front of the train.’

  My blood ran cold. The coroner went on implacably, ‘Do you think this man fell, or do you think he deliberately jumped in front of the train?’

  ‘I think it was deliberate.’

  ‘And where was the body found?’

  ‘Under the third carriage on the far side of the line.’