The Restless Years (1955-63)

by Cecil Beaton

  Marie Louise, by way of conversation, informed Cristobal that I had recently decorated a show in New York with over one hundred and fifty costumes. Cristobal winced, shut up his face like a sea anemone, and said: ‘What a terrible work! How tired you must be! That must be such a tremendous nervous strain: it must take so much out of you!’ In fact it doesn’t take all that much out of me; I happen to be overtired at this point for the foolish reason that I had undertaken to do too much for too long. I am aware, too, of the enormous amount of vital energy it takes for Cristobal to create his clothes: that is why they are so good: they are the result of depth of thought, intense concentration, even physical suffering.

  Marie Louise observed that I was now going to lead a clinic existence in Switzerland. Cristobal perked up to his favourite subject: it appears his hobby is the snow. He talked about the calming influence of mountains in snow, the effect of the quietness on the nerves. Cristobal said that it was necessary for him to spend at least one long holiday, if not two, in the winter, calming down in the mountains. He described the pleasure of sitting in bed with the window open to the cold or to the sun, and the luxury that was provided in these dazzling heights: hothouse flowers and fruit, cherry jam and croissants, and caviar with hot potatoes. His enthusiasm corroborated the fact that it was the right thing for me to do at this juncture when my health is none too good and my nervous system in need of padding.

  Cristobal’s friend, the young Ramon, came into the room, smiling and swarthy. Marie Louise began to tease him. He looked somewhat embarrassed. Cristobal smiled his crinkled surgeon’s smile. Marie Louise’s ribaldries are refreshing to this solemn, monk-like Spaniard. No one else behaves in her outrageous manner in this reserved, quiet apartment.

  Marie Louise gave a virtuoso’s performance: she became a witch throwing her head back in hollow, hoarse laughter. She bubbled with pure fun and French wit.

  One always has the feeling of privilege when one is with a person who sees few people. One feels proud at being the exception to the rule. Tonight I realised that although Cristobal refuses to see anything of the monde and never faces his clients, he knows all the latest potins and scandals almost before anyone else.

  An exception to his rule was when he made a dress for someone to wear at a gala. He told us of it: ‘It had huge panels hanging loosely back and front, and a tight tube underneath.’ (He goes through the motions of a snakecharmer.) Two days before the gala, he went to the fitting room to see the lady, who turned triumphantly to him: ‘Don’t you think it’s beautiful what I’ve done to the dress?’ The panels had been sewn together and shaped to follow the line of her waist, and they had been covered with expensive embroidery. ‘Don’t you think it’s beautiful?’ Cristobal leapt at the dress, tore it to shreds, and said to the vendeuse (who was a particular friend of his): ‘And you will pay out of your own pocket for all that embroidery!’

  Cristobal talked a great deal about Chanel, whom he sees occasionally, and for whom he has a great admiration. He described the dresses that she was making when he first came onto the dressmaking scene and which gave him such stimulus. With his wiry, iron fingers, he could merely by his gestures turn a piece of material in circles. He can conjure up vividly an effect, an epoch. He went through the pantomime of Chanel today (seventy-five years old) still making the same clothes but working, working so hard over the armholes, and wondering where to put a certain button, where to end a cuff. He was able to evoke in a vivid way this great character, this indefatigable publicity hound who he said would ‘die’ if she did not see her name in print every day. He applauded her courageous independence, immaculate cleanliness and appetising physical allure. He marvelled at her understanding of art, be it Greek or Egyptian or Chinese, be it lacquer, quartz, gold or precious stones.

  It is said that Cristobal has recently had the Bogolometz treatment; certainly he seems vastly improved and in good spirits. But as we left after a long evening of anecdotes and laughter, Marie Louise said: ‘But you know, to find him like that is very rare. He doesn’t often come out of his shell, and at a time when he is right in the middle of making his collections. That was very extraordinary.’

  ST MORITZ

  February

  Strangely enough, in this clean mountain air one has little appetite and all food seems so savourless. One is out of breath in the high altitude. The severe cold outside, and the merciful heating inside, do not help my hacking cough and phlegm retching. People at home envy me this most expensive holiday; they long to get away and I feel a pig that I don’t enjoy it more. But let us make an effort and remember the delights, for there have been several.

  It was the greatest joy to wake up in the train, having left Paris the night before, to go into the restaurant car for breakfast and gaze at the snow-spattered mountain villages. They seemed to be comprised of toy wooden houses, brick churches with very tall spires, clean gardens and clean washing hanging out in the cold air. On seeing the children muffled up in scarlet, bouncing along the steep inclines, one thought of Bruegel. The waiters in the train were young and healthy boys. They served with almost acrobatic sleight of hand the generous dollops of sizzling hot coffee and milk. Nothing in the world tasted better than the rolls, butter and dark cherry jam. As the train sped higher it became almost a funicular in the snowy glades: the white cushion-laden trees were illustrations to Grimm’s tales. One had suddenly heightened curiosity about one’s fellow human beings — they appeared strange and unexpected.

  I had not been to a winter sports world for twenty years, and it struck me anew how remarkable it is that people can speed over the crisp, powdery crust under their own steam with nothing but two blades of wood under them.

  There was something dreamily reminiscent about the hotel when I arrived. I had, in fact, been here before, but my memory of it was faint. I liked its Scottish Gothic turrets, fretsaw filigree. Icicles fell from the deep, wooden eaves; big, black crows flapped on the balcony and rather guardedly came for the scattered remains of my breakfast croissants. The lack of sound, the complete quietness, was balm to the soul: there is no silence like that created by snow. All is quiet except for the crunch of one’s own boots and the tinkle of an approaching sleigh. This is a pretty sight, white horses with plumed head-dresses, the driver wearing an almost ridiculously romantic, hussar-like bearskin, and a black cape of long-haired fur.

  At night the moon cast a blue veil over the whole snow-blanketed, lamp-lit picture. A distant dance band could be heard, but muffled, and the solitary barking dog did not break the spell.

  I enjoyed the improbable progress of the funicular railway. I enjoyed seeing, too, the eccentric English abroad. It was they who invented winter-sports, and they are still the first to rush down a mountain on their stomachs with their noses one inch from a wall of ice. I enjoyed the taste of the sizzling cream and cheese-covered eggs eaten out-of-doors at the Coneglia Club.

  It was interesting to see how the richest people in the world have the desire to get back to nature, and spend part of the year on these mountain slopes. Leaving behind their fabulously extravagant drawing rooms in Paris, New York and London, they seem perfectly happy in a reasonably primitive chalet. Tanker multi-millionaires converse with steel or motor millionaires.

  My invalid spell ended. I began to feel healthy again. Suddenly the place died on me, and I left with no regret.

  MY MOTHER IN HER 87TH YEAR

  The creakings of the floorboard on the landing have become a new, but important element in the life of the house. It is something that I will always remember with a certain dread and sadness. Quite recently my mother has become even more restless, and one of its forms is that she will not remain in her bed for more than a few minutes. Exhausted by walking up and down the stairs and along the kitchen corridors in search of an apple, sandwich or drink of lime juice, she becomes affected by the phenobarbitone tablets and at last settles down again to sleep. The apparition, in the pink and blue nightgown, is a haunting one — Shakespearean
in its sense of doom: her nocturnal walk like Lady Macbeth. But withal she has a hauntingly dignified beauty.

  Where this wandering habit will end I do not know, or whether a night-nurse must soon be brought in to help, but it is all part of the appalling dégringolade that affects the aged. Doctor Brown says that the restlessness is not caused by her weak heart or her shortage of breath so much as by an inability to concentrate, to remember or know what she is doing.

  My mother now seems contented to do nothing each day. She does not read a book or a newspaper. She has little interest in the garden, and even her dog has become a habit. As she sits on the library sofa, she is perhaps remembering things of the past. She has never been one to confide in members of her own family, and has always dismissed as nonsense or rubbish any reminiscences about life in Cumberland where she was born. Now, however, she finds Mrs Talbot, the cook, extremely sympathetic and she also talks freely to my wonderful Eileen, about the hordes of daffodils that were like a yellow carpet under the windows, about how her mother made cheeses that were like butter and unlike any others today. She tells how as a child she would sit in front of the fire with lanoline on her face, or how she would climb trees until her mother warned her that she would be dressed in pantaloons. Sometimes she talks of my father, and of my brother Reggie and what a sport he was. She has become like a child in the house, and I talk to her with the exaggerated kindness and gentleness that I would if she was a six-year-old.

  Yesterday I arrived from London and, standing in the hall in my hat and coat, was greeted by my mother saying: ‘Are you going?’ Sometimes she is amusing. She says in amazement: ‘She’s seventy-six! Good heavens, she’s old!’ Given a letter from a stranger who knew forbears, my mother says: ‘Goodness, that’s going a long way back! I can’t be bothered about that!’

  DIANA COOPER AND IRIS TREE

  Non-stop pressure. ‘Don’t pay for boat tickets now!’ We have no tickets but Diana refuses to give up the chairs from the lounge which she has dragged onto an advantageous position on deck. Stewards fussing. ‘Bring the captain. Squatters’ rights. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.’ An interpreter smiles and tries to prevail on reason. ‘We are first class! Look at my credentials. I’m too old to move. Cecil, don’t be such a misanthrope. Don’t let him take it from under you.’ We have to admit defeat when a nicer place is found for us on a higher deck. When we get off the boat I feel guilty. When we walk down the gangplank at Hydra without having paid for our journey, I am ready for the hand of law on the scruff of my neck. But Diana says, reassuringly: ‘Well we got away with that one.’

  Diana Cooper, having refused all invitations for the Wilton Ball, now decides she’d like to see its glories. But she says she must stay with someone who lives nearby — ‘I last longer when I know I can escape.’ Since all houses in the vicinity are now full, Diana asks for a caravan so she can sleep in the Park at Wilton. Sydney Pembroke, on hearing this, winces and makes a face as if he’d bitten a lemon: ‘I can’t have any eccentricity in the park!’

  Rome

  Diana, the beauty of her generation, has become with the years one of the great characters of our time. So strong is her personality that she has countless imitators who try, with far less wit and success, to emulate her ‘come off it’ attitude to life. But Diana, in turn, has been greatly influenced throughout her life by the Herbert Tree family and by Iris in particular. Iris, the youngest Tree daughter, is here in Rome with us now.

  It was the eldest, Viola, whom I first got to know and to worship. She was everything that a young man struggling to break through the barriers of convention could admire. Viola was like a young zephyr, incredibly tall and coltish, she had the quality of a child even when her face became drawn and drab with illness. She was a mistress of the impromptu and a brilliant mimic — but only for one performance. She was never professional enough to meet the challenge of repetition and she could not duplicate some little cameo of observation on the stage. As an actress she was, considering her parenthood, surprisingly ineffective. Having started out with only the highest ambitions, it was sad to see her at the last, in a noble attempt to pay for the education of her sons, having to capitalise on her height by appearing in a grotesque part in a musical comedy.

  I loved being with Viola when she came to stay with me at Ashcombe and loped over the downs and drank water from the holes in the tree-trunks. I loved her in Soho when she would go into a grand florist and unselfconsciously buy one long-stemmed rose because that was all she could afford. I loved her answering the door of her Bloomsbury house in bare feet. She was for ever an overgrown child of nature, and it was only after she was cruelly struck down with cancer that I came to know her more exotic-looking sister.

  Iris just escaped being an albino. With great cunning she made her whiteness an advantage, and cut her flaxen hair with shears to look like a sort of ‘Till Eulenspiegel’. At an age when it was daring to look anything but extremely conventional, she strode about in highwayman hats and cloaks, or in dirndl skirts worn with brilliant flower-embroidered blouses. She became a poet, her life Bohemian in the extreme, and in the many countries where she found herself her friends were mostly artists or writers. She married first the delightful Curtis Moffat, whose unusual photographs inspired me in my formative years, then, later, Count Friederich Ledebur, who is still one of the best-looking, and certainly the tallest, man I have ever seen. For a long time Iris and Friederich lived in a caravan in northern California, then Iris acted and studied in the Tchekov School in Carmel. Only occasionally would the nomad returned to Europe; but now, for some time, she has settled in Rome.

  Iris has a remarkable pristine quality. She never could be spoilt, for she takes nothing for granted. If she is more exaggerated in her manner than Diana it is because perhaps she is the more assured. Both have a fundamental shyness, but Iris somehow makes an asset of what is to Diana and others a great disadvantage. When these lifelong friends get together (they have met only seldom in recent years) they become like greyhounds straining at the leash to run after the hare, so great is their enthusiasm for each other. Not that they gush or enthuse — far from it: they contradict, they argue, but they laugh uproariously and applaud with great glee each other’s witticisms and eccentricities.

  Throughout these years Iris has never been bored and today, when she turned up at the ‘cheap little restaurant round the corner’ which Diana prefers, she brought to the occasion a youthful enthusiasm for the pleasure of ‘lunching out’, of sitting at table and being served with wine and unusual foods. Diana was equally game. Iris was accompanied by a huge dog which suddenly barked and startled everyone in the restaurant. Whereupon Diana shouted: ‘I wish he wouldn’t do that — it’s so common!’ (Meaning, I discovered, it is so common to possess a badly trained dog!)

  Diana then proceeded to encourage Iris to do an imitation of a colonel whom Iris and her husband once met many years before on an Atlantic crossing. The Colonel had become a figure of fun in their circle ever since. Obediently Iris gibbered like an ape and was extremely funny. Diana’s nose screwed up in howls of laughter. The waiter did his usual trick of interrupting. Diana, the chairwoman, in Viennese accent said: ‘Come on now — quickly! “Concentrate, choose and order” as Kaetchen Kommer used to say.’ ‘Wouldn’t you like fungus? Or kidney cooked with sage — or those little birds with bay leaves? I won’t have them because of my anger at their killing anything so small. But you could have goat — kids — very Biblish and a good taste. Let’s get this over! What to end with? Pear and Parmesan? Good! Now that’s over! Now then — where were we?’

  Diana leant forward in her blue spectacles: ‘The Colonel — you were doing the Colonel.’ ‘The Colonel’ started to talk most inexplicably about the Knights of the Round Table. He treated the Knights as old boys of the same club: a hilarious impersonation.

  ‘Now, Iris, do Friederich!’

  Iris obliged with an imitation of her husband in a very deep voice: ‘Now — er — what —
er — time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Friederich. I haven’t got a watch.’

  ‘No, I mean — er — what — er — er — day is it?’

  ‘I think it is Wednesday.’

  ‘No — I meant — er — what time of the year — what month is it?’

  ‘January.’

  ‘Oh, good!’

  Iris then scored with an imitation of the Terrys in The Scarlet Pimpernel.

  In spite of the imperfections that age must necessarily bring and a ridiculous hat she wore today, Diana still appeared to me utterly beautiful. The line of her forehead and nose and the placing of the eye in profile reminds me of a goat, and today she ate goat with gusto.

  Conversation now turned to Iris’s troubles in having bought a motor-car; Iris admits it was a stupid thing to do since she doesn’t know how to drive it. ‘It’s parked outside only for the policemen to sleep in.’ Iris crumples up with distaste when Diana says: ‘It’s silly to spend money putting to rights a car which you can never sell again because it smells of policemen’s feet.’

  Iris must be helped. Diana whispers to me: ‘Will you change your money at her cambio? It will help her.’ Iris must somehow have more money. Iris must be encouraged to do du Maurier’s Trilby in which her father had had one of the greatest successes of his career. Suddenly I became self-conscious for, although Iris is beyond comparison in everyday life, she remains an amateur, in regard to the theatre, even more than her sister Viola. Iris described in long detail her ideas about how Trilby could be made into a musical. Diana, sharing Iris’s love of this story — all part of their youth — made the only pertinent, constructive suggestions. But Iris droned on: ‘Trilby had the perfect mouth formation for a singer: the roof of her mouth was a little pantheon. Her insipid nose should be omitted.’ Iris described the songs Trilby should sing — none had anything to do with the plot, or with the entertainment of today.