by Cecil Beaton
When the performance was over, we had drinks with Mavromati at the cafe. He sat wrapped in scarves and overcoat, as his vest had become soaking wet in the course of the evening. He smoked a cigarette with the simplicity of a child and the dignity of a king. His wife sat next to him, holding their newborn baby. He asked us about Mickey Mouse. Would we send him a marionette magazine from England?
The Greek sailors were very friendly and loth to let us go home. After we returned to the Sister Anne, a little rowboat filled with these white figures in white plate caps kept circling around the boat to give the ladies a moonlight serenade. David’s enthusiasm was too much for me as I lay trying to wake up. ‘Good morning, Cess. Nice thing’s happened: the steering wire has broken. Didn’t you hear it? The engines have stopped. We’ll have to remain here in Milos for three weeks. If it’d happened in mid-ocean or a rough sea, the rudder would have fallen to bits. We would have sunk, indubitably. That’s a bit of news, isn’t it? I was first on the scene. I upped myself out of bed, put a towel around my loins and, curiosity getting the best of me, was on the spot before you could say “knife”! Daisy doesn’t want you to ask any questions. She’s delegated me to tell you all. Well, goodbye.’
The day was the hottest we have so far encountered. The sun stung our flesh with waspish violence. But the poor crew must work on their repairing job with no protection from afternoon scorching. It made us feel guilty to lie about in idleness. As a sort of penance, I elected to work at my diary and write some letters.
There were six splicings to be made. It took the entire crew the whole day to do the job. When the wire broke, the steering mechanism received such a resounding jerk that something vital was dislocated in the fore part of the ship. This meant that Daisy’s cabin had to be dismantled and the panels taken out for necessary adjustments.
Daisy didn’t seem in the best of humours. I believe the game of ‘Monopoly’ wasn’t very enjoyable this morning. David, in reply to Daisy’s, ‘That’s not a gentlemanly thing to do,’ snapped ‘All’s fair in love and war.’
Armand, most balanced of all persons, was put out by these clashes of temperament. He said, ‘When we are on a cruise like this, the strain is so great one must pinch oneself all the time not to be annoyed or annoying.’
In the hottest hour of the day, I went up to the sun deck, lying naked with a towel over my head. I could stand half an hour of gruelling. Soon my body was a pouring torrent of sweat.
When the heat went out of the sun, David and I started ashore, bent on doing some water colours in the square opposite the marionette theatre.
We watched a number of men answering a roll call in the square. It turned out they were prisoners. Most had been sent here for a three year sentence in punishment for white slave trafficking. They are not allowed to work, and must live on an allowance of three drachmas a day — barely enough for bread. So they eat and sleep as best as they can. Some become ill and wasted. Others strike up a friendship with the peasants.
We felt acquainted with half the population. We had rechristened most of them. There was the ‘sandwich man’ (a fisherman to whom we gave black currant sandwiches from the boat); the ‘fish boy’ (who sold us red mullet); the ‘angel’ (a boy aged seven who helped with the marionettes and served ouzos); and the ‘Egyptian’, one of the nastiest young boys imaginable.
As a subject for painting, David and I chose a house in the process of demolition. Strange, how anything which is being destroyed assumes a mysterious quality. The Paris exhibition, I remember, only became beautiful in the last days when it was being torn down; even the houses near us in Knightsbridge seem beautiful when they are razed to make room for new apartment blocks.
The marionette show started again, with a different play from last night’s. But Mavromati showed no sign of flagging spirits. If possible, his performance was even more astonishing.
We stood once more behind the scenes, discovering new aspects of the maestro’s talent. His technique includes more than the mere imitation of many different voices expressing every conceivable emotion or singing all sorts of songs. He makes descriptive and suggestive noises that belong to this puppet world alone — noises that one recognises as an index of human emotions, and yet cannot translate into speech or song. These indefinable sounds suggest moods of hunger, appreciation, expectation or satisfaction. There are noises having an affinity with the animal world, or that very creative world of infancy.
It is quite possible that Aleko Mavromati could invent an entire pantomime employing these noises — an elaboration of the language used by Charlie Chaplin in his all-language song in City Lights. Charlie’s song sounded like any tongue of which one understood nothing. But Mavromati conveys, by clucking, gurgling, gasping, kissing and clicking noises, many feelings that are universally understood. To capture the oblique traits of humanity is a rare art. Sometimes, on the stage, I have loved an actor merely for his presentation of some particular facet of human life, his understanding and knowledge of a special foible. The marionette master seemed in this respect the richest actor I have ever seen.
Mavromati stood with hunched shoulders, protruding stomach and backward-tilted head. He stamped on the floor boards of his impermanent stage; he took a hasty sip from a chipped cup of coffee strategically placed behind the footlights, then back to the most inhuman grimaces. His mouth opened wide, stretching so far back that the flesh on his cheeks formed crescents into his neck.
We asked Mavromati about the unusual range of his acoustics. Last night, we had observed that a whisper carried to the farthest table at the café; while when he chose to thunder, even the crew back on the yacht had heard it.
Mavromati explained that he knew his confines well, and thus was able to judge his effects precisely. If he lowered his head, his frenzied asides would not reach the audience. But if he raised his head towards the sounding board of the plaster wall, he could make his cries heard throughout the bay.
Perhaps the maestro has inherited the acoustical acumen of his early Greek ancestors, who planned their open-air theatres so that a coin dropped on the central stage could be heard by someone sitting in the furthest circle of stone seats. Now this science has been lost. Music pavilions are built, found wanting in the essentials of sound transmission and then abandoned. Yet Aleko Mavromati, in his improvised theatre of cardboard, could be heard for miles around.
News arrived that the splicing of the steering wires had been finished. We must leave our genius declaiming against the back wall of this table-sized theatre to an appreciative rustic audience. They were fortunate but unaware of the measure of an itinerant artist, poor but great, someone to be ranked with Garrick, Grimaldi and Coquelin.
The ship mended, we were on our way early. The day was spent cruising. Shipboard life has now settled down to a routine seldom broken. Bright talk at breakfast, then a general scattering and reunion at midday for ‘Monopoly’. Lunch. Sleep. Cold drinks. ‘Monopoly’ again. Perfunctory chatter and a last minute dash for a guide book as we arrive at our next port of call. Land is inevitably first spotted by Eric Aylwin, an old salt of thirty years standing and very efficient with long distance glasses. (One of the jokes of our trip was my initial gambit of conversation with him, when I handed him a telescope and asked, ‘Can you use this?’)
Daisy was in a mood to please. To this end, she wore a dazzling native costume of gold and many colours she had bought in Bali; with its broad obi-like sash and draped skirt it showed an affinity with Japanese clothes. The apparition was a ravishment.
DELOS
Arrival at Delos was our first glimpse of the real Greece. Whereas Milos had nothing of antiquity, here we found a whole town of ancient arcades, shops, cisterns, wells, temples and theatres ruinous but still impressive.
The mosaics on the floors of courtyards and roofless houses are still in perfect condition. Near the theatre is a small house built for an actor, with a design of masks on the dining-room floor. Other dwellings have elaborate mosaics of urns i
ntertwined with olive branches, circles of sea horses, medallions of dolphins. Most beautiful and delicate in work was a design of a goddess in yellow skirts riding a spotted panther, both garlanded with leaves. Our guide upturned a pot of water over it, in order to make the colours sing with brilliance.
For us, who are neither archaeologists nor art historians, Delos was thrilling simply because the remains of ancient Greece create, paradoxically, a living atmosphere. It is elusive, this atmosphere — mysterious, classical, primitive yet highly civilised. It is all of these things and more. Its impact is violently strong, not unlike that of a drug or a potent new drink. In fact, as we bounded about among these fallen columns and wandered through the labyrinths of deserted arcades, we all of us felt an elation that made our eyes brighten, that stirred a great longing to merge with the beauty of the place until we became a natural part of it.
Today was our first whole day on land since the cruise began. We suddenly took stock of our boat existence — roaring and grumbling through vibrating waters, and holding desultory conversations at meals while Rosamund stuck the labels upside down on the Evian bottles. We’d spent long nights of sleep and long days of doing nothing.
At lunch, when Daisy was absent, the rest of us agreed that it was a pity to spend so much time cruising by day, arriving at some town by dusk and then sailing again by breakfast time. Also, David and I must leave before the cruise is over, as Juliet[73] will be furious waiting for us in her palazzo in Venice.
Other matters have affected our intentions as well. We were sitting at a café table this evening when David came up with serious news. The wireless officer had had an unofficial message saying that Hitler has mobilised a great force on the Czechoslovakian borders. France and England sent an inquiry, to which Hitler replied that ‘manoeuvres’ were in progress. Nothing more, but enough to scare.
War seems imminent. Being the last person to take things optimistically, I was suddenly sunk in gloom. All our private jokes, all our activities fell into perspective. My remorse at having missed some Greek island or other couldn’t matter less now. What did it signify if we didn’t get to Constantinople? What did anything matter if there was a war? I took to my bunk as a dog scurries off to hide during a thunderstorm.
The others continued to discuss politics after I left. Their voices could be heard on deck. Hitler may be bluffing. France and England may be calling his bluff. If he invades Czechoslovakia, England and France may still not go to war. Perhaps the news was complete fabrication. But the world is so prepared for war, and wars generally start in August. It is not in Hitler’s character to retreat, to play his hand with restraint.
I lay sleepless, wishing I had taken the opportunity to ‘put my house in order’, so that my mother could enjoy a certain security she does not now possess.
No more war news from the wireless. Though much talk continued over late breakfast of air raids, precautions and strategic tactics during the next war, we sailed on towards Constantinople. The morning passed eventlessly. I talked with David as if we hadn’t met for weeks.
David has an admirable knack of leaping on to the funny things that other people say, repeating them almost simultaneously. Often a witty remark is unheard except by him. Quick of hearing, he takes it up and makes it win appreciation and applause.
ISTANBUL: ST SOPHIA
Still half-asleep, with eyes that hardly register, we hurry up on deck to catch an early dawn glimpse of the old city of Stamboul. It is now only six o’clock. In the pre-daylight morning, the minarets and domes glimmer with an added opalescence. The still, dull waters of the Marmora Sea seem to be motionless, while the Blue Mosque and Santa Sophia float by. Gradually, our eyes accept this kaleidoscopic mirage as a reality.
Few people have yet stirred themselves; business has not been embarked upon. Several dead animals float by, as inflated as the domes of the mosques.
Our first indelible impressions now rain thick and fast upon us as the official steamboat draws alongside to conduct us to our place of harbour. Past the old town we glide, past the Bay of Galata and the Galata Bridge, towards the new, shining, hideous white Palace of the President.
We had heard that Constantinople was now a large modern city, where the fez had been replaced by the bowler hat. But we had not expected to find the colour of the Orient so entirely banished. The town surprised us by its monochrome. All the buildings are greyish, even the mosques dun-coloured or biscuit. All day long we waited in vain for an effect of colour.
On our first morning of sightseeing, we picked up a guide in a ridiculous panama hat. Achmed was never to leave us for the rest of our stay. First, of course he conducted us to Santa Sophia. It is not its jewel-like quality of gold further encrusted with gold, but rather, the proportion, the grandeur and the size of the architectural achievement by which one is most impressed. Only by a careful and studious inspection of the various details of its component parts does one fully appreciate Santa Sophia’s richness, greatness and beauty. Achmed asked if we would like to go up the scaffolding and see the work the Trust was doing above the high altar. Here we met Mr Whittemore, the American responsible for the discovery of the mosaics which have been uncovered within the last seven years. Mr W. was anaemic and stringy, dressed like an old Lesbian. But he soon showed the force and appreciation of a dedicated artist, a specialist in his field.
It was explained to us that, under Turkey’s new presidency the Mosque has been turned into a museum. Hitherto, the ruling of the Moslem religion forbade revealing Christian scripture figures made at the time of Justinian and Theodora. But we are now permitted to see the crowning achievement of mosaic art. The decorations here are considered infinitely more refined and splendid than those at Ravenna.
Mr Whittemore now led us higher up the scaffolding, our giddiness overcome by a zest to see the work that has justified his loftiest hopes. At an altitude at which an aeroplane might fly above the altar, we finally arrived at a platform where a native workman held back with a long rod a canvas curtain to reveal a large head of Christ, dazzling in the transcendency of its colours, subtle and sensitive beyond all imagining in the drawing of the face. The eye furthest from us had been placed lower and, as the head was slightly turned, made smaller than the eye nearest us — tricks of perspective that are stressed in modern painting. In fact, these fifth century mosaics have a great affinity with Modigliani or Rouault.
Other decorations uncovered have revealed family portraits of many Emperors wearing state robes and all their jewels, grouped with their wives and sons. One of the Empresses, a Hungarian, is shown to have been a very painted lady. The way in which her pink and white enamelled face has been differentiated from the unmade-up complexions of the others is miraculously subtle. Mr Whittemore observed that she was like Queen Alexandra, preserved in a perpetual state of youthful artifice.
We poked about upon the scaffolding, peering at fragments — a border made of fruit, flowers and cones, or an angel’s wing like a waterfall.
Our sightseeing expeditions are generally made en club. None of us being specialists, these tours prove cursory, with few or no observations to help one appreciate things. Seldom is there more than, ‘What a pretty pink!’ Or, ‘What a charming place, etc.’
Fortunately I was able to see Santa Sophia again in the company of Mr Whittemore. He pointed out many felicities I had not noticed before: that the porphyry and marble columns (some from Baalbec) supporting the bubble domes of the mosque are often of varying lengths so that the capitals, carved in an exquisite design of leaves, must be of different proportions.
Mr W. also went into a technical discussion of the subtlety that this art of mosaic had attained here, a pitch never again to be reached. For example, these mosaics exemplify the lost art of playing with light in the placing of each cube of stone. Here, over a main door leading into the church, is a decoration upon which strong daylight plays. But, in order to give the impression that the decoration is shining out from within the church, the cubes i
n the gold background have been placed to reflect the light at a different angle from these cubes which make up the representational figures. In effect a new dimension has been brought into play, in another panel, the cubes have been so angled as to shine only when seen from a low vantage point. These mosaic cubes are made of every sort of stone and glass. The luminous effect of shadows is created by the glass cubes.
THE CEMETERY AT SCUTARI
The cemetery was the focal point of our visit to Scutari. After taking a ferry across the Bosphorus we had ridden part of the way in one of the bobble-curtained horse carriages that are painted with flowers and landscapes. But since the hills were so steep, out of consideration for the horse and to the astonishment of the driver, we walked in the scorching sun. But the effort was worthwhile.
The cemetery proved a haunting sight with its thousands of carved marble tombstones; turbans and fezzes for men, with flowers for girls and children. Cypress trees were stripped bare by the winds or bent low. The earth was dry and impoverished; only flaky grasses and thistle grew. A venerable gardener, who had worked here for sixty years looked like someone out of an ancient myth.
The foundations of many headstones had given way. Down they fell from their erect positions, toppling in all directions.
Half-hidden in the long grass lay a skeleton, its bones strong and white and baked by the sun. I felt no compunction about taking these remains and photographing them in all sorts of arrangements against tombstones lying in the grass.
The others in our party were conscious of a strong smell of death. And, indeed, more than one grave gaped wide. Vandalism is a frequent occurrence here, as the thieves can cart away the slabs of marble to be cut up, recarved and sold again for further tombs.
