by Cecil Beaton
On the afternoon arranged for the first lesson, I arrived promptly at her gloomy, overheated hotel. It seemed very unlike New York in its antiquated atmosphere. Everyone knew everyone else in the lobby; idlers gossiped about their pet dogs.
‘Would you wait? Mrs Campbell is engaged.’ (She hadn’t written down the appointment.)
After a few minutes, the summons came for me to go up to Mrs Pat’s rooms. A wiry old fox was being shoved out as politely as possible. It turned out that Mrs Pat had been trying to get him to offer four thousand dollars for her correspondence with Shaw. The letters, done up in large white envelopes, lay in the pigeonhole shelves of her desk. ‘Oh, if only he would buy them and see that they were treated properly. But it’s all so difficult.’
My lesson proved a revelation. Mrs Pat recited a poem of Tennyson: ‘Come not when I am dead, to drop thy foolish tears about my head’. She had chosen the passage as being impossible to recite in an offhand, fashionable, nasal twang. I listened, amazed by the turtle-dove richness of her cooing. I tried, but only after remonstrance did I realise how light and murderous was my own interpretation.
An improvement set in at the second attempt. She lowed enthusiastically, ‘You’ve done it! You’ve altered the pitch of your voice. You can hear. Now you must learn to give variety.’ Her own register possesses infinite variety, though I had never before been conscious of it.
The two rooms in which Mrs Pat lives cost her a hundred dollars a month. Her Pekinese lies in a basket. Every piece of furniture has been covered with remnants of brocade. There are a number of photographs and water colour sketches, bags of all sorts hang from lamps and corners, the radiator is covered in a snood of red brocatelle. For art she has a living Degas: opposite her window, pupils of the American ballet practise incessantly in white tutus. The titles of various strewn books indicate Mrs Pat’s passion for the classics — Shakespeare, the Works of Milton, La Dame aux Camellias, Pelleas et Melisande.
‘But my dear,’ she continued warmly, ‘you’ve got it! You must go on the stage. You have practically all the advantages. You have grace, looks, youth and a lovely voice which you must learn how to use. You have an appealing quality and (though better looking) are like Leslie Howard. You must do it. I’ll help you. Why, you should see the people that come in to me. One man, this morning, was tall and handsome, but his legs dangled like a marionette’s. I sent him off to see a doctor. I said, “You can’t be an actor with legs like that!”’
Mrs Pat demonstrated how she moves on the stage, a stylised technique in which the foot precedes any other part of the body. Thus, if she but turn to look out of a window, the foot turns first.
Arm movements, too, were different from those which I would have executed. ‘No, no, you cannot open your arms with elbows close to your sides. You are not a Jewish comedian. You must show the best part of your arm, the inside. Now, raise the palms of your hands and push outwards as if you were parting the winds!’
The head, as apotheosised by Mrs Pat, became a gracious appendage of one’s body. ‘In moments of anxiety, you must never throw your head from side to side. It is foolish and restless. Raise the head and clasp it still; no, not with your hands, with your spirit! Now you’re learning all my tricks!’
Finest of all Mrs Pat’s techniques is her development of the spontaneous: saying exactly whatever comes into her head, she endows every word with freshness and spontaneity. Today she looked like an Italian housekeeper in the inevitable black velvet, as seated at her typewriter, very badly pecking out the Tennyson poem and spoke her mind. ‘Oh, you are so pale today. “There let the mind sigh.” You have suffered so unfairly and these people are so vindictive. “And the plover cry.” You mustn’t pitch your voice up, like a wife who hates her husband. “Child if it were thine error or thy crime.” You know the way they nag, “Darling-be-an-angel-and-get-me-another-piece-of-toast!” But you’ll do it, I’m sure.’
Mrs Pat has also made a study of being absent-minded. When the telephone bell rings, she calls, ‘Come in.’
As a teacher she is excellent. Her criticisms are cannily apt, and one relishes her cruelty.
It was Mrs Pat’s seventy-third birthday. Some gardenias and a cablegram from England paid homage to her great character, to an actress who had been loved by Shaw, who had brought a new influence to the theatre and was now a waning one. The young ballerinas across the street were doing their arm exercises now. Moonbeam, who would never be in quarantine, snoozed contentedly in his basket.
Part XX: Summer Abroad, 1938
The late thirties were the great ‘holiday’ time. Sometimes months would be spent motoring about the pleasant places of Europe with ease and nonchalance. Yet fortunately, my work could be continued wherever I happened to be, and eventually I would return with the task of editing notebooks, sketch-pads and exposed films, which had accumulated.
Some of the holidays were spent enjoying the godlike sensation of flying on water skis over the sapphire sea of the Cote d’Azur, to be followed by a pilgrimage in William Odom’s Hispano Suiza to the birthplaces of the painters of the Italian Renaissance. With Peter I was initiated into the Rococo marvels of Austria and Bavaria.
A visit to Russia under Intourist conditions was a saga of frustration. Because of their imcompetence I was thrown off the train in the middle of a snowy night in Poland and sent all the way back to Berlin for a one and ninepenny transit visa.
In Moscow I had to fight my indoctrinated guide, Miss Polak, to be allowed to see the relics and remnants of the degenerate days of the Czars rather than be suitably impressed by the underground station, the science museum, or the reformed (but nevertheless sullen) prostitutes working in a laundry.
The first sight of a typical citizen of the Soviet, a bloodlessly pale and drawn woman, with the expression in her eyes of a whipped dog, was a shock, the effect of which will remain with me always. In fact, the general unhappiness and ugly squalor gave me my first stirrings of a social conscience. Before, the lot of the working classes had been the concern of my more intelligent and civic-minded contemporaries, who had even gone to Spain to fight for their convictions: now for many nights on end I could not sleep for thinking of the abject misery of the people. My shut eyes were filled with pictures of their unhappy colourless faces which showed the beaten acceptance of a life only a degree above that of animals.
Not all the journeys were of a luxurious nature, for instance, my first glimpse of Spain: this was in the company of Tchelitchew. For reasons of economy we travelled by cattle train, put up at the cheapest hotels and savoured the full ardours of Seville in the heat of August. The following cruise, however, could be described as the apex of luxury.
ON BOARD SS SISTER ANNE
August 1st 1938, Monte Carlo
The Sister Anne, like a white toy boat in a child’s bath, awaited our arrival in a blue bay. Our bags were put in a dinghy and, with as little fuss as if we were going to Salisbury for another weekend, David Herbert and I boarded the boat that would take us on a cruise to Constantinople, in mileage, it was to be a trip as far as from Europe to America.
The party on board consisted of our hostess Daisy, with an Edwardian coiffure of curls high on her head, her daughter Rosamund, who should have been a Tahitian model for Gauguin, Lord Aylwin and Armand de la Rochefoucauld.
The Sister Anne looked bright and shining. Her brass fittings gleamed from perpetual polishing; her cabins were spruce. A few items, such as cushions embroidered with maps of our itinerary and a parrot in a Maltese cage, gave the Stevensonian note of adventure to the expedition.
We sailed, waving goodbye to the pine trees in Daisy’s garden; and, after an unexpectedly calm voyage over a colourless lake, we arrived to take part in the night-time gaieties at Calvi in Corsica.
Remnants of daylight made it possible still to see the contours of the town. Soon lights at Calvi’s windows and in the restaurants offered glimpses into the private activities of the inhabitants — vignettes that the day denie
d us. The layers of flat, flanked houses looked like homes made of wafers or some sort of pastry, flaking down one on top of the other from the height of the hillside to the strip of brilliantly lit port where the world paraded up and down. Dogs barked in the distance, orchestras played in the cafés and people sat in windows, a part of the illuminated picture of their room. We could see scarlet wallpaper and china plates hung as pictures on the wall. Palm trees stood silhouetted against the lighted houses. Lanterns created dappled effects as they shone through complicated trellises.
As we neared shore, wafts of musk and herbal scents were thrown down on to us from the groves of maquis trees. We trekked down the ship’s gangplank to an evening of surprises. In the half light, every object assumed an added mystery. Indeed, since the boat was to leave at daybreak next morning, there would be no opportunity to destroy our illusions.
The proprietor of the restaurant supplied us with an excellent meal made by throwing, with unerring instinct, any old scraps into a pot of eggs or beans.
We ate under an awning of pepper trees. Acacia gleamed about us in phosphorescent bouquets. The tree that blossomed with poufs of thistles was to be avoided, for anyone who smelled it at once got a swollen nose. We did see a woman who had obviously made this mistake, and she looked like a figure Breughel painted quite often.
Our mood became gayer, perhaps on account of the red wines we drank. Soon everything seemed and was funny. We explored the citadel in the dark with the aid of a torch lamp that only worked when it was least needed. Under the enormous walls, more like a Gordon Craig setting than anything he could have invented, or like the bows of a stone Queen Mary ship, we climbed in circles until in the dark an unexpected step asserted its presence and Daisy’s ankle was painfully turned over.
The tropic heat made sleep impossible. I took advantage of my wakefulness to muse idly on subjects that day does not encourage — morbid thoughts of death, accidents and love.
BONIFACIO
It seemed to be the end of the world. The last light was fading from the sky. A pink cloud reflected the sun that had already disappeared below the horizon. The whiteness of buildings and earth alike created an emptiness that is fashionable among painters of today. Near the barracks, built around a quadrangle, groups of Arab soldiers in fez and khaki squatted on the ground. They were the only coloured inhabitants of our otherwise uninhabited and colourless world. They seemed bored to a stupor, longing for anything to happen but not minding the fact that nothing would. Diana Cooper, who takes her special brand of wit along with her wherever she goes, would have said, ‘They have no plans.’
MARSALA
Lord Aylwin looks to sea through a telescope and, though he speaks but little, his age-seared face makes one speculate about what must have been an adventurous youth. Armand’s humour becomes more definite in its elusive way. He is an unexpected and subtle comic. David’s enthusiasm is unquenchable.
Daisy shows her most delightful and primitive side. This cruise is her holiday of complete relaxation. She is no longer the lady who holds conferences while wearing clothes that are not only indicative of the fashions to come, but reflect the great French tradition as well. Here she talks like a child to her child, observing how nice it is to walk on cobblestones, with the round stones fitting into the curve of one’s instep. Or she extols the satisfactory feeling of walking up the stairs and touching the edge of each step with one’s instep. She screams with amusement when a playing card flies off a table.
Daisy is a remarkable woman, but never more so than as mother to a child who becomes part of the family party, and for whom conversation is never needlessly tempered. There is no question of playing down to Rosamund. Rosamund takes everything in her stride, and unlike most girls of her age, is without shyness, precocity or inhibition.
MALTA
It was after dark when we approached, but the moon was bright and the port sufficiently illuminated to give a clear, if too romantic view of the island. The activity of so many boats made a sharp contrast to the day’s solitude. One or two battleships in the harbour added to an impression of great organisation and power.
As we manoeuvred to our berth a small official boat drew alongside. The sailor shouted his ritual questionnaire, one that has been employed for thousands of years. In his foreign accent, he called, ‘Where are you from?’
The Captain yelled back, ‘Marsala.’
Silence. Then, ‘Is that in Italy? Is all well? Are there any passengers in transit?’ And the boat was off again into the night.
A young English officer, with red face and gold bands on his starched white uniform, paid us the honour of greeting us. In so doing, he gave us our first glimpse of the official Englishman stationed abroad. He spoke as if with a plum in his mouth, most awfully hearty with jerking knees and head swinging from side to side. ‘Oh, it’s a hell of a place to be for two years. I’m still looking for someone to play squash with me. Anyone here care for a game? Or perhaps you’d all like to come and have a drink with me?’ He was kind in facilitating our progress through the Customs House. Only Armand was called aside, thereby furnishing copy for many jokes. ‘Where’s the Frenchman? You’ve got a Frenchman aboard, haven’t you?’
The portholes were shut at six in the morning. As we left Malta a choppy sea sent the Sister Anne rolling from side to side. Great bangs and crashes now became usual occurrences. Shipboard life took on an utterly different aspect. Everyone sprawled horizontally; no one dressed. Hair looked untidy, the men went unshaven, the women greased their faces.
Meals were served as we lolled in various parts of the boat. The boat rocked and lurched. Some of the sailors were sick, but none of our group became actively ill. At most, my stomach felt weak from time to time.
Malta now seemed far distant as we read the guide-books and history of the Knights. I regretted not having gone with the others to see the Citta Fecchia by moonlight. Here old Maltese families still inhabit palaces that have been their homes for four or five hundred years. There are no shops to disturb the elegance or the residential quarter, only avenues of coloured saints lining the streets. The Maltese thus confused the invading Turks by making one street identical with another.
MILOS SILHOUETTES
At ten o’clock we rowed ashore to see the marionette (really silhouette) show. It took place at the one and only café, where a stage has been semi-permanently rigged up.
Against a sheet of stretched white muslin, fit from the back, the silhouette figures, jewelled with cut-out triangles of coloured gelatine, are brought to life by means of implements resembling fire tongs or toasting forks. These little cardboard personages, half fly and half Persian prince, resemble those seen in Balinese drawings. Their antecedents are, however, Turkish: they are identical to those figures (perhaps a thousand years old) that were brought to Greece in the Turkish invasion of five hundred years ago. The play ritual remains unchanged; like the Turkish music it has been appropriated as a part of Greek national life.
The moonlit audience sat at coffee tables, hilariously receiving this traditional drama. I remember seeing such a performance during the Ramadan in Tunis. The plot was undoubtedly the same: a young man is counselled as to how to win the favours of a lady. Not knowing one word of Greek, it was difficult for us to appreciate fully the humour of the evening. David and I wandered around to the back of the stage and were allowed to watch the performance from behind the transparent curtain. Every character in the play was being enacted by one wildly gesticulating, adroitly manoeuvering Greek. He had the wiry intensity, the black curls, moustache, striped baggy trousers and tragi-comic quality of Charlie Chaplin, and the tired, sweet face of an artist.
This performer — Aleko Mavromati is his name — has for sixteen years been touring the Greek islands with his marionettes. In the confines of his miniature world he is God Almighty. While running a gamut of emotions, he simultaneously manipulates rods, twists his arms to allow personages to cross one another, whispers asides to his helpless assist
ants, and also prepares the next effects — the figures about to appear, the sounds to be employed.
Assisting Mavromati on this rickety, shaking box-stage were three or four grown assistants, including a flautist, plus half a dozen children whose job it was to hold the rods of temporarily unmoving characters, while the maestro expertly caused a fight to take place in another corner of the stage. Though incompetent and apt to giggle, these wild-eyed children yet seemed fully conscious of their responsibility to the unseen audience that could be heard reacting somewhere beyond the proscenium. Loud laughter gratified the leading performer. It allowed him a moment — between singing an oriental song, crowing like a cock or slapping his thighs with resounding fierceness to find a certain character that had been removed from its rightful position in readiness for its immediate appearance. With flaming eyes, the marionette God swore, slapped the laughing children, and in time brilliantly assumed the convulsive sobs of hysteria.
There could be no doubt we were witnessing a supreme mastery of technique. Stage actors always have a few lines with which to work themselves into a necessary mood. Cinema artists can prepare the proper emotion before the cameras grind. But here was a succession of quick-fire effects, all equally demanding — a woman screaming, a Moor roaring lustfully, a youth pleading pitifully, dogs barking, songs sung by drunkards. With machine-gun succession and perfection, the one responsible man accomplished everything. If, by chance, one hand was free, he would gesticulate in the manner of the most flamboyant orator.
Mavromati tinkled a small hand bell as a sign that another act had come to an end. Then, although apparently exhausted, he went out front to take an offertory plate around to the island folk and Greek sailors from a naval ship offshore.
