by Cecil Beaton
Dodo, whose appearance is always an inspiration to artists, today seemed like a Tanagra figure in her Chinese-pagoda straw hat that she had bought in Fordingbridge. Augustus, puffing away at his down-turned pipe, wore a beret and a dirty blue smock and looked like a figure Manet would put into his views of the outskirts of Paris.
The atmosphere was quiet, relaxed. With the Johns were two strangers: a rather self-effacing ‘art’ enthusiast with his meek young wife. The conversation was about the gipsies in Spain. Augustus is by nature extremely shy, and it takes considerable effort on his part to make conversation. In fact he will not attempt to indulge in small talk, so there are apt to be long pauses between the topics. The visitors were obviously having a hard time; as people who are not experienced in the social ways of the world often do, they made too much fuss about their imminent departure.
In the John world there is never insincere politesse or phoney flattery; it is somewhat overwhelming to people who aren’t accustomed to honesty on such a bold scale. Augustus is a monolith, a giant, and everything about him is grandiose: his Falstaffian bulk, his generosity, and his love of his friends. He is overflowing with affection and, like a great polar bear, likes to hug and kiss playfully almost anyone he finds sympathetic and congenial. He takes violent dislikes to people he considers pretentious or ‘stuck-up’. He is a great iconoclast, and smashes sacred cows with superb gusto. He likes ‘earthy’ people and gives short shrift to the intellectuals. He can be caustic in his debunking, and sometimes his tongue is cruel. (Of his taciturn son, Edwin, he said he was the greatest linguist in silence.) But he can be kind, cosy and full of merriment. He is always quick with a witty answer. We were eulogising the nobility of the head of the Duke of Alba, who has recently died and of whom Augustus had made several drawings. Augustus added: ‘And his daughter is rather a wonderful creature to look at, too.’ ‘Oh no,’ I disagreed, ‘to me she was very disappointing!’ To which Augustus, taking a great gulp of smoke from his pipe, murmured: ‘It all depends what you wanted of her.’
Augustus hates ‘rough’ stories but cannot refrain from being quite frank even at the risk of shocking. A lady with a ‘high society’ drawl asked him how many children he had.
‘Oh, about six or seven.’
‘And what ages are they?’
‘All about the same age,’ came his bored reply.
Dodo has had a difficult life with Augustus’ infidelities, his bouts of drunkenness and his open-handedness with money. Although Augustus has made a great deal there seems never enough left for the housekeeping. And the John household, with so many illegitimate children at home, has always been a large one.
He does not consider that it is anything but flattering that he should ‘make a pass’ at any sitter whom he admires. The ‘pounce’ is part of the sitting: the pose, the rest, the pounce, then on with the pose. Augustus is always hopeful that the pounce will succeed; but perhaps he knows from the start that it will not amount to much, for he never shows annoyance or is in any way hurt when rebuffed. Yet he would never give up trying, and, quite recently, a young sculptress to whom he was sitting for a bust was asked for how long she wished him to pose. At the appointed hour for the sitting to end, Augustus looked at his watch, unbuttoned his trousers, and presented to the girl a seventy-year-old, but still stalwart, phallus. The girl later confided that the sure way to prevent a half-hearted attempt at rape was to appeal to Augustus’ very vital sense of the ridiculous.
But Dodo never worries. She loves Augustus and knows that even when it is vitally important for him to finish some portrait he will be lured away to the pony rallies in the New Forest or to ride over the downs and join a village pub crawl.
A neighbour told me of an argument that Augustus had with Philip Dunn, a very rich and brilliant money-maker, with whom he was dining at the Eiffel Tower in London. This was the expensive restaurant, presided over by the great character, Stulik, where Augustus when in London was most likely to be seen. Philip suddenly said: ‘I’ll bet you whatever money we have in our pockets that you are wrong.’ Philip found that he had about twenty pounds in his own pocket. To his astonishment, Augustus laid down eleven hundred pounds in crisp, white, high-denomination notes. Stulik, the Hungarian proprietor of the Club-Restaurant, who had doubtless run a ‘tick’ with Augustus that had mounted with the years, had eyes like a rocket. In a flash the vast Stulik was hovering over the pile of money. Philip, when he had recovered from his surprise, said: ‘You’d better let me have that money to invest for you.’ But neither Philip nor Stulik got their hands on any of it, neither would Dodo be given a note of it. Augustus summed up: ‘I like carrying a bit of pin money on me.’
The daylight faded. At last the strangers departed. Dodo produced a bottle of red wine and some thick glasses. We sat in the semi-dark and drank, and talked about the Renoir and Matthew Smith shows at the Tate and of the recent acquisitions to this very lively gallery. It was interesting to hear the venerable couple sadly shocked and baffled by the pictures which are now encouraged: one era again giving way to another. Augustus, very tactful and oblique in his criticisms, showed himself no admirer of Graham Sutherland: ‘seems to pay little attention to the classical requirements of draughtsmanship.’
Dodo, less euphemistic, said of Lucian Freud: ‘His women have these terrifying pop eyes and over-lifesize heads — they frighten me.’ Augustus continued: ‘But Francis Bacon doesn’t know how to paint surely? What are those awful worms, and who on earth would buy that dog?’ (To me, Bacon’s ‘Dog’ is one of the most unforgettable pictures and unlike anything one has seen before.) Yet neither of these experts concede much quality to painters like Annigoni. Augustus surmised this ‘show off’ painter as having ‘no balls’. Augustus can be extremely jealous.
It is curious that Augustus who, only a comparatively short time ago, was considered ‘beyond the pale’ — a revolutionary, a menace, a scandal — should already himself be on the other side, and inveighing against the ‘new look’ in painting and in manners. Augustus, for all his gipsy-vagabond aura, has perfect manners. He is quite formal on occasion, as when he carves the joint for a family gathering, insisting that the younger members serve their elders.
We were now sitting in complete darkness as we talked about friends and eccentric characters we all knew. Augustus laughed about his various vicissitudes with Louisa Casati, to whom he had periodically given a bottle of whisky and to her cat a rabbit. Augustus can be quick-tempered when rattled or riled; but to old friends he is always understanding and generous.
The moment came to turn on the lights, and for me to leave. I felt extremely exhilarated and happy after being in such congenial company. Dodo and Augustus always remain at their front door, waving, until their guests are out of sight. They made such a delightful Darby and Joan picture tonight, silhouetted against the brightly lit little hall — he, so monumental, she decorative in her hat and long skirts, waving by his side.
MOUTON ROTHSCHILD
Mouton: November
It is winter in England but it is like summer here — flowering Judas, chestnut, cherry and laburnum trees, wisteria rampaging, flowerbeds spilling bachelors’ buttons and pansies.
My bedroom: Louis Seize bed painted white, toile de joue upholstery on white-painted furniture. Chinese pots containing lilac, plants in earthenware pots and saucers.
Through the shutters the sun pierces and makes incandescent the silver ink-pot, the strips of brass inlay on the writing table, and discloses the work of a small spider whose silver thread is weaving a pattern attached to the lilac.
The sound of hundreds of doves on the huge, sloping roof cooing with content, the clapping of their wings (applause in flight), deep guttural voices of those working in the stables and vineyards, a saw wheezing, a hammer on wood. Someone, in a burst of whistling, crunches over the gravel.
The vineyards have been kept for three thousand years. The stony earth sprouts fresh, strong shoots of vine. A Roman villa stood where Mouton
now stands. With its cellars, its out-houses, stables and barns, it had been converted in 1922 from the seventeenth-century ‘caves’.
The little villa-house where Pauline and Philippe[3] live today was built in 1890; with its tall Gothic stone walls, it is like a child’s illustration to Walter Scott. Inside it is crammed with Napoleon in decorations, bead pictures, bead cushions, gold drawing-room furniture upholstered in scarlet brocade, flowered rugs on red carpets and coloured glass-panes in the veranda porch.
Huge trumpet-shaped vases, filled with blossom, stand on the floor and there are pots of calceolarias and ferns. Miniatures in jewelled frames are mounted on velvet and displayed on easels.
There are many dogs. Philippe says: ‘A dog in the home is a piece of moving furniture.’ ‘What’s the time? Oh, only an hour-and-a-half before dinner. That’s not enough for pottering about my room and I must read the last act of a play,’ says Philippe.
Bravo! Robert! The applause is for the flower decorations on the dining table. A raw-boned youth in white, starched jacket gives a twitch of pleasure and a subservient nod. Philippe says he always insists on having a different arrangement of flowers on the table for every meal. Another youth brings in a freshly ironed napkin, unfolds it with ceremony, lays it on the floor, then brings in the dog’s dinner and places it on the napkin. M. le Baron, in claret velvet jacket and white satin tie, is robustly appreciative of the petits soins. Pauline asks: ‘What are these called?’, flicking a delicate hand towards the embroidered tablecloth which has been dotted for the occasion with sprigs of bridal wreath and laburnum surrounding a centrepiece of iris and chestnut blossom. It is a work of imagination. ‘And he’s just a simple peasant boy from here. He’s never been further than Pauillac,’ says Philippe, rubbing his outstretched hands as he settles down to his place at table.
A miraculous meal is served. ‘To be greedy in this house is considered a form of politeness,’ Philippe says, but unfortunately he must ignore the soufflé, so too the other dishes. His doctor forbids him to indulge. Elaborate dishes are taken from the table minus only one spoonful. Pauline toys with some watercress salad. It is the ritual that she enjoys and the opportunity for serious conversation. Tonight the subject is Izak Dinesen, Baroness Blixen, the one and only great literary star in Denmark ‘who has all the Danish assets’. According to Pauline no woman writes about men as well as she. Her dialogue is always convincing. Dinesen seems to dislike women. Sometimes she invites seven men to dine. Yet, according to Pauline, although she tells an anecdote extremely beautifully in a man’s deep voice, there is something less interesting about her personality than her writing. When she left Africa after having lost her lover, her husband and her money, she told a friend that she could do three things: she could cook, write, or become a tart. (Pauline considers forty to be an excellent age for a tart.) Dinesen decided that writing was the least hard work.
To some, Pauline seems affected, but her affectations have become completely natural. She has a rare capacity for concentration, and she expects others to listen to her with the same intensity that she would give to them. She is direct and purposeful. When one is not following her, she challenges one and proceeds to contradict if one’s reasoning is hazy.
Pauline has come to rest in a well-lined nest. She has had a life of great contrasts — an unsuccessful marriage, a period of selling jerseys in Formentor, and various romantic attachments which led her to all parts of the earth and to no particular world. Yet Pauline has always known what she wants. Others may not have wanted Philippe, but Pauline was certain she knew he was for her. When she was introduced to him, she said with reverence: ‘Not the poet!’ and that flattered him above all else.
Pauline still has signs of independence. In Paris she lives in her bachelor apartment away from her husband’s house in the Avenue d’Iena. She goes to Rome to learn how to draw; she has a model to pose for two months in the same position; thick portfolios are filled with drawings of the same subject. ‘You can’t have a teacher for this sort of thing: you must work things out your own way.’
Yet Pauline is deeply enmeshed with her husband’s interests. Her eyes look meltingly at him; she laughs at his worst jokes, ignores or does not notice his interruptions. Philippe drops a fragment of food onto his dinner jacket, scrapes it off and eats it. She becomes tired; Philippe’s vitality is excessive, but that is no complaint; Pauline, besotted, smiles.
Pauline is never hurried, never impatient; she loves to idle, to sit on a stone wall and watch the antics of her terriers. Meals are late: luncheon at two, tea at seven-fifteen, dinner nine-thirty. She is impervious to the passage of the months. A sofa, a room, an apartment, or a new building will take a long time to finish — a year maybe — but she has a five-year plan, a seven-year plan, a ten-year plan. She is not afraid of the future, or of loneliness; she takes her design for living for granted. If it is too exquisite, too refined for more earthly mortals, it has its own reality. She is an artist in life. She has the variety of an actress’s inflections in her voice, sometimes so lightly skimming over the parenthesis then hitting the important word hard. Her gesticulations and arm movements are over life-size.
Twilight. In the sweet-smelling barn the oxen are at rest eating their evening meal. Silently they lie in the hay, so large and placid they appear as if they must be going to give birth. They chew the cud, and contentedly watch their golden world; this is their reward for their labour. A little man with shaggy grey hair prods the oxen in line. Obediently each rises, turns, and drinks deeply from the trough of fresh running water. They drink with such deep reverent seriousness; one can sense the cold, clear water going down the large trunk-like neck. Their drink over, they look sadly baffled. They turn around again, then manoeuvre themselves into their byre, sinking again amongst the hay to enjoy, at the end of their long day, peace. At four o’clock in the morning the shaggy-haired little man will prepare them for their work in the vineyards.
A deep emotion strikes within one. These beasts of burden are so beautiful in their pale dove-coloured hugeness: immaculately clean, soft, so strong. Their eyes benign and sad. These great beasts convey all the contentment but all the pointlessness and unhappiness of life. Suddenly I felt an onrush of tears. These wonderful animals will be slaughtered when their years of work are over.[4]
DIANA VREELAND
Diana Vreeland, cranelike, pink and white and black, is one of the people I most cherish. To be with her is like quaffing handfuls of mountain spring water: so invigorating and fresh. She is not only good, with a sense of values that is rare in the trashy, commercial world of fashion in which she works, but she has imagination and understanding of other people’s troubles. She is one of the best friends that I possess. Some people do not understand her. Those who consider themselves living in a world of sophistication are worried by her unexpected originality. Conventional people confuse her outward image — the flamboyant appearance — with the truly civilised creature that she really is. But she does not stress her serious side; in fact she spends much of her time in consciously entertaining her audience with a brilliant act of clowning.
When, soon after my arrival, I made my customary telephone call, she treated me to flights of glorious fancy. Diana the great eccentric: ‘We’ve had the Comédie Française here. Such acting! It was immaculate! None of the tradition of grease paint and dirt, but the most pristine white gloves you’ve ever seen! If I could manage to have gloves like that, I’d be happy. But they were white, white, white, and when one of the men made a gesture with his hand, it was an unforgettable moment in theatre history. And the backs of their necks were so scrubbed!’ Diana then gave me a detailed description of a new washing soap only to be found in Switzerland called ‘Baby Blanc’. ‘Believe me it is going to change our lives entirely!’
Then proceeding to what in others would be a more prosaic matter she informed me that Reed, her adored and adoring husband, and she had recently moved into their new apartment. ‘But it’s nothing like ready! We
have six workmen here all the time, and they’re so goodlooking, they’re killers! And they’re so young! They were all in the Navy together, and they have blue eyes and that wonderful look that people get when they haven’t a roof over their heads. They’re killers! But Billy Baldwin, my decorator, says: “Now, Diana, you’ve got to stop having a love affair with these men, otherwise we’ll never get them out of the house and you know the job’s got to be done.”’
Diana Vreeland has become with the years one of the great personalities of the New York scene.
FISHING IN FLORIDA
The tug on the line, then the pulling in of this great, struggling weight. Exciting, yes. But the sport, for me, is overshadowed by the suffering of the fish. At the end of a merciless trip pulled through the relentless barrage of water, with a hook in its mouth or down its stomach, it is brought into a new, airless sphere, clutched at by terrifying hands while the hook is painfully, laboriously, extracted. Possibly a pair of pliers have to be brought into play to wrench the metal from the bone. Finally, the wounded fish is thrown to the bottom of the boat, where it leaps and darts in the terrible unaccustomed heat of the sun, while the fisherman is busy putting a new piece of bait onto his hook. It is when the line is thrown into the water that the fisherman turns, picks up his last victim, opens the lid of the cold storage chest, and throws the fish into darkness. Here it thrashes itself upon the corpses of its fellow denizens who have already suffered the inevitable. But the thrashing is of no avail; yet, suddenly, in a last desperate attempt to survive, it jumps and twists and turns somersaults in a panting frenzy of desperation. Then silence.
