by Cecil Beaton
Like Proust, D. remained, in spite of his great culture, sensitivity and intelligence, the most sentimental and doting of persons, suffering wild seizures of jealous anxiety. Often he would wake in the middle of the night and wander into the neighbouring room to see if his favourite was sleeping soundly. More often than not, the object of affection had skipped off on a nocturnal expedition to Nice, taking the precaution of arranging bolsters and pillows to look like a sleeping form. When Diaghilev eventually discovered the ruse, there would be a terrible row ending the expeditions.
Some time later, D. might become suspicious on another score. And though the young deceiver went to great lengths of secrecy, it would be discovered that a friendship had been struck up with one of the scene carpenters at the theatre. Promptly, D. set about having this workman removed to another theatre, and thought nothing of spending two hundred pounds to accomplish his object.
Sometimes Diaghilev could be seen at his window, scrutinising the beach through a pair of binoculars: it was a way of keeping watch on the behaviour of his current favourite. Afterwards he would hide these glasses, oblivious of the fact that his enormous form could be seen even at a distance, as he peered jealously towards the sands.
Though his predilections were common knowledge, D. disliked to think people should notice him expressing an interest in some enticing young man who might pass by in the Bois. But age and fat made him unable to turn his head without also having slowly to swivel his entire body.
Bébé observed that all the young men who became friends of Diaghilev would be influenced by his courtly manners and mannerisms, his way of dressing and his hypochondria — he spent a great deal of time lying down, carrying on his life of books and music from his bed. Each friend in turn started to bother about his own health, imagining all sorts of germs and impossible illnesses. Each adopted the same way of dressing — very formally, like a mannequin, with tight, tall collar, buttonhole, tie-pin and specially shaped Homburg hat. All Diaghilev’s friends could be recognised by their dress; indeed, most of them still wear that sort of hat.
Throughout this bout of gossip, Bébé continued to paint. And at length I discovered he had added a second figure to my portrait: a small boy who, by contrast, throws my likeness into dramatic relief.
September 23rd
What a congenial last evening we spent in Tamaris — Denise, Bébé and myself. We looked at back numbers of the Theatre magazine, then went upstairs to Edouard’s little library. Cushions were spread on the floor, and Bébé and I lay down and smoked opium.
I had had no sensation whatsoever on two previous occasions, nor did I this time, though Bébé prepared three pipes in all for me. The smoke has a fresh, vernal taste, like the juice of a blade of grass. I became strangely unsleepy yet restful, capable of understanding more quickly than before. But I could not honestly pretend to feel anything else.
Tonight Bébé seemed excited because I was smoking with him. His enthusiasm, both touching and funny, made him want to share with me the things he loves. He produced Freud’s book on Leonardo, an illuminating discovery. He read the poems of Rimbaud aloud and told of the poet’s life.
Bébé glowed with unparalleled inspiration, behaving like what he is — one of the few grand characters of our epoch. He smacked the dirty white dog (as dirty as himself); he snorted while he inhaled pipe after pipe of the most adulterous opium.
We ended the evening by raiding Denise’s kitchen together. And I slept as soundly as usual, with no ill effects from my three whiffs of illusion.
Today, our departure day, was a sad end of holidays. With the news so ominous, it may well be my last vacation before the debacle. Bébé had slept in Denise’s upstairs library, fully intending to start off early for Hyeres and buy some extra baggage, as he was returning to Paris with me. But the smoking habit prevents him ever being punctual. Two hours late, he put in an appearance downstairs. Later, I noticed that the comb in my bathroom was very dirty: Bébé’s toilet reduces itself to the simplest methods.
Somehow he got to Hyeres, reappearing with a smart bag and many nickel-plated kitchen utensils for packing his smoking products and paraphernalia, also a few magnum bottles of Guerlain scents. He put on his town suit and threw away all other garments.
I am writing this in the train that takes us to Paris. Perhaps Bébé will want a few more sittings, though I expect the light will have changed or his mood will be less reposeful. More than likely, the picture will have to stand on its unfinished merits.
Part XXI: The Last Summer, 1939
The following extract might be said to record the climax to date of my photographic career. Publication of the results of this session was held up by the outbreak of the Second World War. Their delayed appearance provided a refreshing contrast to the grim pictures that then filled the newspapers.
THE QUEEN
July 1939, London
The telephone rang. ‘This is the lady-in-waiting speaking. The Queen wants to know if you will photograph her tomorrow afternoon.’
At first, I thought it might be a practical joke — the sort of thing Oliver might do. But it was no joke. My pleasure and excitement were overwhelming. In choosing me to take her photographs, the Queen made a daring innovation. It is inconceivable that her predecessor would have summoned me — my work was still considered revolutionary and unconventional.
A rush of organisation had to start forthwith. Telegrams were sent off summoning electricians and operators.
I arrived at the Palace soon after ten o’clock the following morning, to choose the rooms in which the photographs would be taken.
Following a scarlet-liveried page down miles of the dark-red carpeted corridors of the Palace, hung with petunia-crimson cut-velvets, I was in the clouds. We passed rows of family portraits, busts on columns, and gilt chairs. Housemaids, busy with their dusters, hurried through baize doors. Groups of grey-haired, be-medalled servants stood in posses at the end of an enfilade. Through the door of a small dining-room, I saw crumbs on a white linen table cloth.
The superintendent made himself congenial, and showed me the Rembrandts, Le Nain, Vermeer, and other pictures in the long and ugly railway-station gallery; also the Boucher tapestries, French furniture, and objects of art that during the past twenty years Queen Mary has collected to replace the Victorian stuff gradually being weeded out.
The Palace is now a happy combination of Regency and Edwardian. I admired a certain Louis Quinze desk, as it proved to be one of the treasures of the Palace. Moss Harris, the antiquary, had offered Queen Mary fifteen thousand pounds any time she wished to sell it.
The superintendent opened the double doors to various drawing-rooms, the throne room, the small sitting-rooms. He explained that workmen and artisans, non-stop throughout the year, are making repairs or renovating some aspect of this huge ensemble — the superintendent has forty men under him.
He confessed, ‘We have a lot to do matching the silk on the walls. Do you see how it has faded behind these pictures? We have a great deal of the material, but it must be the same tone as where it has faded. Look at these sofas: also upholstered in the same material. Look at this patch. We’ve had that bit of silk out in the garden to fade it in the sun; but even so, it looks different from the rest. These repairs go on all the time. After every party we find someone has slashed a sofa with his sword.’
Through the windows, I could hear the changing of the guard. The commands of the officers, shouting to their men, sounded like someone retching. Throughout the Palace, I noticed, one has no feeling of remoteness from the people. The garden, though enormous, hums with the distant burr of traffic. Through the windows of many rooms, one can see the curious crowds waiting beyond the railings.
The Deputy Master of the Household suddenly appeared. He cleared his throat, seeming like so many courtiers, who enjoy communicating their nervousness to suitably terrified ‘outsiders’, and explained, ‘Uh-huh-Her Majesty wanted to see you-uh-huh — about — uh-huh — choosi
ng the dresses for this afternoon’s pictures. I’ll try and get you in quickly, because as a matter of fact I know the Queen — uh-huh — has got the — uh-huh — hairdresser at eleven.’ By the time we had waited outside the Royal apartment and I was at last bidden into the presence, any selfconfidence I might possibly have assumed had been knocked out of me. My mouth was dry. When the mahogany doors were opened, I felt I was being precipitated on to a stage without knowing any of my fines.
The Queen was in the act of moving towards a desk. All about her, a blue haze emanated from the French silk walls embroidered in bouquets of silver. The room seemed a pointillist bower of flowers — hydrangeas, sweet peas, carnations.
The Queen wore a pale grey dress with long, fur-edged sleeves.
She greeted me, smiling and easy. Nevertheless, I felt myself standing stiff, my knees shaking. ‘It is a great happiness for me, Ma’am.’
‘It is very exciting for me.’
We discussed dresses. ‘You know, perhaps the embroidered one I wore — in Canada...?’ A slight hesitation prevented the remark from being conceited, for the Queen must have known I was aware of what she wore on her Canadian tour.
The Queen made other tentative suggestions: ‘And I thought, perhaps, another evening dress of — tulle? And a — tiara?’ All this wistfully said, with a smile, and raised eyebrows. The charm of manner was so infectious that, no doubt to the Queen’s astonishment, I found myself subconsciously imitating her somewhat jerky flow of speech, and using the same gentle, staccato expressions. I wrinkled my forehead in imitation of her look of inquiry as I asked if — perhaps — as much jewellery as possible could — be worn? The Queen smiled apologetically — ‘The choice isn’t very great you know!’
I went away in high spirits and full of hopes for the afternoon.
In a corner of the semi-circular music room, with its lapis columns, a great group of men were preparing the lights. Others had already set up a platform, and a screen with my backgrounds hung on it.
The superintendent had told me that I wouldn’t be allowed much time with the Queen. In fact, he explained, not since the late King George’s reign had any photographer been allowed to take pictures for more then twenty minutes.
Thus, at last, when a rush of pages and a hustle in the corridor preceded Her Majesty’s entrance in ruby encrusted crinoline of gold and silver, I began to photograph with monkey-like frenzy. This seemed to amuse my sitter.
We photographed now from room to room. The electricians and the camera assistants could hardly keep up with us. Nevertheless, the sitting went with such ease and rapidity that I beamed even as I sweated with the effort. The Queen smiled as freshly as ever. In fact, she said, ‘It is so hard to know when not to smile.’ She tidied her shoulder straps meticulously and placed her fan just so. She was gamely prepared for another picture to be taken.
It was only when the plates had to be reloaded that I could possibly allow Her Majesty to change into another dress. I apologised for my over-enthusiasm and expressed the hope that the results would justify this behaviour.
The Queen disappeared, then reappeared in spangled tulle like a fairy doll. She admitted with a smile, ‘I changed the tiara. And these diamonds — are they all right?’ They had been given as a coronation present by the King: two rows of diamonds almost as big as walnuts.
Then, after the diamonds, the Queen produced three rows of enormous pearls. ‘Are three rows too much?’ I protested. But a little later Her Majesty removed all but one row, saying with a chuckle, ‘I think three are too much!’
The camera devoured plates with gluttonous rapidity. The Rolleiflex did service whenever the big camera was not ready. Pictures were taken of the Queen against my old Piranesi and Fragonard backgrounds, with flowers from her rooms padding the sides of her chair. We also took shots against the pillars of the drawing-rooms, in doorways, on sofas and against the precious Louis Quinze desk.
The sun now came out, encouraging the hope that I might be able to take photographs outside. What about — a garden party dress — on the terrace? The Queen assented. In ten or fifteen minutes we would meet downstairs.
While I waited, a tea tray was brought to me in the lapis drawing-room. My superintendent friend came in and said, ‘Do you realise you are the most fortunate young man I’ve ever known? Why, you’ve had three hours of the Queen’s time already. Do you mean to say she’s gone off to change once more? Why, she hasn’t had her tea yet, has she? Well, it means the poor King will have to have his tea alone!’
Never has tea tasted better. The bread and butter was like angel cake. Yes, I was a fortunate young man. I smiled to myself, recalling the little comments the Queen had made during our indoor sessions. When I ran out of Rolleiflex films, someone was sent to Heppels for more. The films arrived very soon. Her Majesty exclaimed, ‘Never have I known such celerity.’ Again, when we tried consciously to arrange her hands on her lap, they became self-conscious. Abandoning all efforts to put one hand on top of the other, the Queen said, ‘I’m afraid your instructions were too rigid.’
I waited on the terrace. The Queen appeared, smiling and laughing in a sudden gust of wind. She was wearing a champagne-coloured lace dress and hat. She carried a parasol.
She walked down a flight of steps while I ran about with my small camera.
The lawns of the Palace were fitfully strewn with sunlight; the atmosphere seemed strange and timeless. I felt that our expedition to the lake, to photograph by the water’s edge was something outside reality.
The Queen talked gaily. ‘I am interested in your photography. You have such a high standard. Can you do a lot afterwards? Can you take out a whole table?’
‘A table is a bit much, Ma’am. But I can slice people in half.’
‘How the King will laugh when I tell him you photographed me directly against the sun. We have to spend our time running round to face the sun for the King’s snapshots.’
Her Majesty halted suddenly on the lawn. ‘Do you realise we are in the Sacred Circle?’ On the grass a white circle had been painted. ‘This is where all the Bishops assemble at the Garden Party and wait to be received.’ How disappointing for ten thousand people that yesterday the rain had wrought havoc! The Queen commented that for ten days they had listened to the hammering of the tents being erected. Now they would listen for nearly as long while the tents were being pulled down.
Photography continued beneath a giant stone vase, in a summer house of tridents that came, it seems, from the Admiralty. We then took pictures from under the trees against the water, with the Palace in the distance.
‘Will my parasol obliterate the Palace?’
‘It is a very big Palace.’
‘That central part is the original Buckingham House.’
In the filtered light, it looked as though it were made of opals. We stood for a moment listening to the distant roar of traffic. The evening sun was beginning to lose its power. Soon the sky would become rose-coloured; as if, as the Queen said, ‘Piccadilly were on fire every night.’
We walked back to the Palace, where tired and baffled officials clustered by the door.
Downstairs, in the circular hall, I took my leave. As mementoes of the honour, there would be a hundred negatives. But in my pocket was hidden, scented with tuberoses and gardenias, a handkerchief that the Queen had tucked behind the cushion of a chair away from the onslaught of the camera. I had stolen it. It was my particular prize, one which would have more romance and reality than any of the photographs.
STAYING WITH GERTRUDE STEIN AND ALICE TOKLAS
August: Billigoin, Bellay, Ain
This house has an atmosphere that every artist must respond to. It is an invitation to work in ideal conditions. Colours, sounds and smells combine to produce an impression of complete simplicity and harmony. Here everything necessary is at hand, nothing more. The whole day may be spent idling or working, as one pleases.
The house was built circa 1649 when domestic architecture in France
was good. It is solid, boldly proportioned. Each room is as satisfying as the solution of a mathematical problem.
Throughout the house, there are few objects. But each object is of merit. There is nothing to offend the eye. A polished perfection dominates this rusticity. The cakes of soap in the bathroom are placed in rigid, sharp-edged precision. The food is the best food, for Alice has not only a cordon bleu but watches her cook with a rapier eye. The plates and the goblets are bold and beautiful.
In the terrace garden, frail China-pink roses bloom between the borders of box hedges. Wisps of ivy climb over the gnarled stone parapet. At intervals along it are three small pavilions as simple as a Noah’s ark house, but with the proportions and textures and colours of the best relics of the fifteenth century. The distant mountains and poplared valley are constantly changing throughout the day, as clouds gather or the sun shines.
Gertrude is delighted here. ‘Yes, it is nice. Yes, it is very lovely.’ She beams with enjoyment as she snatches a handful of weeds from the rose bush.
Ahce wakes at five each morning. She puts on a cretonne smock, then sets about the task of collecting vegetables from the garden, planning the meals for the day and arranging the flowers. By eight, she is wandering with a large basket over her arm and a cigarette wobbling between her lips. By nine o’clock, the vases have become the most esoterically arranged still-lifes. I know no one who arranges flowers better than Alice. They have an architectural quality.
We passed by a fair where the roundabouts were hung with chandelier teardrops. I shot for roses, missing only one bull’s eye out of twenty. To the great excitement of Gertrude and Alice and the entire village, we left with an enormous bouquet of puce, waxen-paper flowers — roses, carnations and dahlias.
