by Cecil Beaton
It was the greatest thrill of his career when as a young choreographer his work had been singled out by her and he was bidden to Ivy House to see the great star.
He was talking to her husband, Monsieur Dandré, in the drawing room when he saw those stretched eastern eyes looking at him above the shutters of the window. She came in. She looked old but marvellously preserved, the skin stretched tight over the bones of her face; and no matter where she stood or sat, she instinctively took up the most wonderful poses.
She took his hands and blessed him. ‘You will have great success, one day. It may take a long time, but it will come,’ she told Fred. She said that she would like him to arrange dancers for her when she returned from her next tour. She never returned. She had a bad cold, caught pneumonia while changing trains at night and, in those pre-penicillin days, she died.
MEMORIES OF PAVLOVA
Mementoes of former stage productions generally strike one as cheap and tawdry. Rarely are theatrical exhibitions interesting to any but the most eager connoisseur. But in Copenhagen there is a small theatre which has remained unused since 1880 and now houses a theatre museum. The auditorium, the boxes and the steeply raked stage are dotted with busts of actors of the past, their costumes thrown over chairs. The effect is delightful, if slightly haunting and peculiar.
For me, the most touching relics were to be seen in a glass case in the wings of the stage. Here were the costumes, given by her husband, Monsieur Dandré, after her death, that had been worn by Pavlova when she danced in Copenhagen. If we never saw her dance in them, we know them from photographs and statuettes. The best known is the yellow satin Empire sheath for the gavotte, worn with the tall bonnet ornamented with its green leaves, and the gold leather sandals. And here, too, was the three-cornered black hat and the mask that went with the silver and black Venetian costume for the Coquetteries de Colombine. Pavlova’s dresses in their tangible reality are today ghost-like, without the art that gave them life.
The stage is a world without memory. Often, at the end of a performance, I have left my seat in the auditorium and gone through the ‘pass door’ backstage, to find that the scenery which a few minutes ago had cast such a spell had already been dismantled, leaving a void. Sometimes, especially in a provincial theatre, I would find that the discarded palace was stacked in the street outside or being loaded onto trucks, while the stagehands were now only interested in the new arrival of the French farce bedroom. It seemed now almost a miracle that here, preserved before us, were the most ephemeral of all garments, belonging to the greatest dancer within our times.
Pavlova achieved her greatest fame as a virtuoso performer after she had broken away from the presiding genius of Diaghilev. But it was then that she was criticised for her poor taste in her choice of musical composers, partners and strange clothes. Diaghilev’s designers executed their costumes in sturdy materials of painted linen or appliqué decorations on cloth and velvet. Pavlova would dance as a Bacchante in a wisp of chiffon — very vulgar! Yet Pavlova could rise above everything; Pavlova was unique. Here in front of us were Pavlova’s chiffons. For me, these relics held particular significance.
Pavlova had been one of my enthusiasms since that memorable, unforgotten Saturday evening when, suddenly, my father realised that Pavlova’s latest season was ending, and that there was only this one last chance to take his whole family to see her. Of course all the seats at the Prince’s Theatre were sold except, miraculously, for a box. It was situated very high on the ‘prompt’ side of the stage from which only a bird’s eye view could be obtained; that was better than nothing, and if we were to occupy a box we must all dress for the occasion. As it happened, the cricket match at the Hampstead Cricket Ground, in which my father was playing, continued later than usual. My impatience to embark on our journey to theatreland turned to exasperation with the rest of my family and their last-minute delays.
Long since trussed-up in my first dinner jacket, and in an effort to pass the time, I wandered into the garden. There I picked some of my mother’s standard roses which thrived so well in our clay soil; I would take these roses to the theatre and perhaps be able to throw them from our box at the star of the evening. These roses became somewhat wilted by the time they had been clutched in my hot hands during the excitements that followed.
Of course I knew nothing about the technique of great dancers and dancing — could not tell an arabesque from a fouetté — but my father now informed us we were being taken to see ‘the greatest dancer in the world’. I knew from the newspapers that she gave garden parties and danced on the lawn for her guests behind those high walls of ‘Ivy House’ along the Spaniard’s, not far from where we lived on another side of the Heath. But my parents now passed us little snippets about the temperament of the Russian dancer, and regaled us with ‘inside’ information, widely known, for example that such was Pavlova’s rage and jealousy of her partner, Mordkin, that, on one occasion, she had taken a bite out of his ear.
For me, Pavlova was the epitome of all that was rare and mysterious. From the moment that evening when she appeared on the stage, with her big beak of nose, the V-shaped smile, and the long spears of blue painted eyes which gave her the head of a peacock, she was to me the personification of magic. Her fakir-thinness, her mask-white make-up, her stylised, quivering gestures, rather than her flowing grace of movements, sent me into transports.
At the end of that evening, after Pavlova, in the lilac-blue circle of the following ‘spotlight’, had danced ‘The Death of the Swan’, she embarked upon the lengthy ritual of accepting her applause. This was one of the great features of all Pavlova appearances and was known to last as long as her actual dancing upon the stage. But on the last night of the season it had extra significance. The more the audience howled its approval, the more the dancer conceived new devices for eliciting even more adulation. She darted off into the wings on one side of the stage, while the audience, under the impression that, by sheer volume of sound, it could ‘will’ her to come forth from whence she had flown, yelled its delight at seeing the star appear, and rush forward, with arms outstretched, from the depths of the opposite side of the stage. Pavlova then received yet another bouquet of long-stemmed, dark red roses. She reappeared almost immediately in a shower of flowers which rained down from the gallery. The ovation increased until the ballerina was again sacrificed to her public amidst a new welter of magnificent hot-house blooms — no doubt from Solomon’s in Piccadilly, that most recherché of florists.
The applause and the curtain calls continued. The cheers became hoarse; the palms of a thousand hands were burning and painful, but still the clapping went on. The star figure materialised before the curtains at longer intervals and, though the plaudits were as generous, the flower shower became more of a trickle. Now surely this must be it — this must be the final curtain call of the miraculously revived ‘Swan’! Yes, once more Pavlova curtsied slowly, the arms weaving, the eyebrows raised, the eyelids lowered: the tremulous, flickering smile was a tragic goodbye, followed by another farewell kiss to all out there in front. Not a flower was left to throw — except my roses fatiguées. This was my moment. In spite of my appalling embarrassment I stood up in the box and threw with all my strength. Caroline Testout fell limply through the air, followed slowly by Madame Abel Chateney. Down, down, down they went, and miraculously they landed at the pointed toes of the ballerina assoluta. An electric current ran down my arms, my arms, my spine, my legs. I could hardly believe it when, from among the Solomon relics on the stage, the thin white hands went out to my home-made offerings and clasped my mother’s roses. An incredible sense of intimacy went through me. It was as if I had established a sexual rapport with Pavlova and it had been watched by the whole audience. The fact that my family laughed and cheeringly congratulated me only made me feel more embarrassed. But I left the theatre in a daze of fulfilment.
For weeks on end I scribbled likenesses of Pavlova on any scraps of paper lying about our house. The telephon
e pad was a maze of that precious, birdlike profile and sleek cap of black silken hair. A few months later, at Harrow School, I submitted my interpretations of Pavlova taking her curtain call as ‘The Fairy Doll’ for the end-of-term competition. When a stranger to the Arts School offered half-a-crown for its purchase, I was extremely flattered and felt enriched. It was the first time I had sold a painting.
THE UNITED NATIONS
New York
A Prince of Cambodia, like a partridge, with a high, feminine voice, spoke in French about his not having as much police escort as the Communists. He pleaded for his country’s interests, but in view of greater issues at stake they seemed, to us, unimportant.
After half an hour’s boredom, Harold Macmillan rose from his bench to walk towards the podium. There was something about him so cool and collected, so calm and schoolboyish. In fact all the English struck me as being like delightful, hardworking, Upper School fellows, all working tremendously hard for an exam.
The speech was impressive, not only for its oratory but for its directness and simplicity, its understanding, fairness, and wide experience. I don’t know if it said anything new from the political point of view, but the entire assembly was deeply impressed by the quality that the man radiated. I was very touched.
It was by no means a conciliatory speech. During some condemnatory remarks about Soviet hypocrisy and bad behaviour, Kruschev, sitting a few rows in front of me, banged his desk with both fists, rose to his full five feet and pounded the air, inveighing against Macmillan. The suave and somewhat tired voice answered the heckling by saying: ‘If you go on I shall have to have a translation of what you’re saying.’ Everyone laughed. A woman next to me said of Kruschev: ‘Look at him! He should be put in a cage!’ I must say I have never seen a human being more like a bear. On another occasion when he interrupted ‘Mac the Knife’ he turned round to Tito to continue his vilification of England and suddenly gave the sharpest wink I’ve ever seen — the wink of a pig.
I was amazed to see how quickly he could turn from fury to laughter. He is a combination of clown, pig and bear. His suit was of poor quality, creased, wrinkled and badly fitting. In comparison, Macmillan in his blue suit, Guards tie and long silky hair, looked extremely gentlemanly.
The influence of Churchill on some of Macmillan’s intonations was very marked. The extraordinary, unaffected yet scholarly way in which he pronounced certain words was refreshing. It was heartening and moving to hear his plea for humanity. I came away feeling proud.
GRETA’S SHORT VISIT TO LONDON
November 1960
Greta arranged to come down to the country for the weekend. The visit was curtailed for a dinner appointment. Naturally this did not take place. So she arrived under Simon Fleet’s care on the Sunday morning.
Greta did not look as ‘downtrodden’, to use her word, as I had expected after an interval of nine months. As she got out of the train she was torn between making a demonstration of joy and affection, and appearing self-conscious. She laughed with lowered eyelids. Then when she saw there were no spies she abandoned herself to friendliness and gaiety. She was wearing ski-clothes, a terrible pixie-hat that children wear in the Tyrol, hair now long and fringed. ‘Well, well, well, fancy that!’ She was in the best spirits as we drove through the autumn tunnels to Broadchalke.
The only anxiety was would my mother still be hostile to her? Last time my mother had thought Greta was taking me from her and there was quite a situation. This time, however, my mother’s reaction was wonderfully different.
After an enormous lunch which we both enjoyed, we went for a long walk. There were a few complaints about my being mad to take her where there was so much mud, but she wanted to see (her friends) the pigs and the calves again, and there is always mud where animals tread, particularly at this flooded time in England. However, we walked high over the downs, the air went into one’s lungs and made one feel so well. We climbed gates with much protestation and, when it was becoming dark, returned by a hedged path. We had crab-apple jelly, scented with sweet geranium, for tea.
Greta still seems unable to live a full life; she still wastes away her summers in that ghastly flat in New York, traipsing along three streets to get a package from the Health Food stores. Nothing to report of the annual visit to Cap d’Ail, except ‘I saw nobody’. She had seen Cecile Rothschild intermittently.
Dinner at Juliet Duff’s was sympathetic as old friends were there — Sidney, Michael and Simon. Greta was at her most demonstrative. She looked quite remarkably transformed from the somewhat drab figure arriving at the railway station. She again wore her black ski-pants and maroon sweater, but added a mauve chiffon scarf which was becoming. Her face was animated. Her smile was enough to disarm all criticism. But there was a certain amount of criticism from her of myself.
‘You need to breathe fresh air and feel the tread of grass beneath your feet.’
‘I know.’
There was a little badinage about our getting married even now, but I would not play. I was too sad to think of the waste ...
Greta started to reminisce about her earlier visits here. How we had driven in such cold and foggy weather to London and Oxford. We went through a town (Staines) that smelt of linoleum. How she loved that smell! Once Mr Burton and I had got out of the car, and while we were standing against a wall she looked discreetly in the other direction, she saw a woman walk into the ground-fog and just disappear into eternity.
Many of the things were forgotten by me; things that I had been too busy to remember.
TRIPOLI: COUNTESS ANNA MARIA CICOGNA’S HOUSE
November
One of the rare pleasures of life is to wake in a completely new land and discover the world outside your darkened bedroom. The shutters successfully shielded all light, so that when I opened them onto a huge, white terrace blazing in the sun, I was blinded. It seemed incredible that so few hours away from the darkness of London the sun should sparkle with such power.
I wandered around the terrace looking down onto a white, Turkish courtyard. I climbed onto the white roofs and looked at the distant town with minarets and palmettos. I looked down on Anna Maria’s garden — courts with marigolds set out in a lace pattern in a fretwork bed, jasmine climbing a wall and palmtrees completely motionless in the morning calm. This was the civilised Africa of romantic novels that are no longer read, but for which I still have a secret longing. This was a holiday!
It became a habit to walk round the garden at dusk and sit watching the light fade. The variation of light was a wonder. Tonight I sat by the water-lily pond expecting the return of the kingfisher; but he did not come for his evening dip. There were only the frogs and tiny objects darting over the glass surface of the water, disturbing the reflection of the palm tops and the hazy half-moon.
The sunset had been matchlessly beautiful. The slight mistiness in the sky made a mother-of-pearl effect that gave one a start of pain and pleasure. The sun had gone down behind the frieze of palmettos, giving the sky a spectacular orange glow. The palmtrees looked dove-grey and smoky; the white buildings sugary and soft. To walk in this oriental garden was the most perfect visual treat. I wanted to breathe it all in deeply, and let the pleasure remain with me.
VISIT TO ALEC HAMBRO’S GRAVE
Tripoli
He loved Baba. Their course of love was not smooth. He was considered by his family to be unreliable. He had left the Hambros’ bank and never stuck to anything. He was sent abroad, away from Baba, for a year.
Baba has enormous strength of character and was absolutely determined that this was the person she would fight to marry in the face of opposition, poverty, disgrace, expatriation, no matter what...
Alec’s year abroad only stiffened their resolution. On his return nothing could stop their getting married. Baba had been happy. The marriage had been a success. There were two children.
Now, after all these years — where had they gone? Baba was sending my thoughts back to the past. I felt sudd
enly very out of context. I saw myself as I walked along with the ridiculous bunch of flowers. I knew I looked pretty eccentric with my large, grey hat on the top of my head.
I suppose any challenge to one’s country has to be answered, but the useless sacrifice seems to make little sense. Causes change. Former enemies become allies, and vice versa. But I am glad that there are people who behave with dignity, and maintain a belief even though death is the reward.
‘TURANDOT’
New York: January 1961
The first night was electrifying. Never has there been a more charged atmosphere at the Met. The standing ovation for Stokowski’s appearance on crutches was thrilling and throughout the performance the audience applauded enthusiastically at every opportunity.
My evening, however, was ruined by one chorus-woman coming on in Act I in the costume I had designed for her to wear in Act III. It was a particularly unfortunate accident as the hundreds of dresses in Act I were specifically designed to be dark blue and other drab colours in order to create the necessary sinister atmosphere. Suddenly this ‘trespasser’ appeared in an orange skirt, meant for an entirely different scene later on. All eyes were drawn to her. I was dumbfounded and could only hope that she would somehow fade into the background. But no, she was always in the forefront of the stage. When the chorus lay on the floor, the orange bottom was the biggest and most prominent. Then when she went to the side of the stage and stood in an arc light, my rage exploded. I darted up the length of the aisle gathering more fury with speed. I rushed backstage and pushed my way through the crowds round the back of the set until I came to the wings where the orange could be seen in full glow. Here the chorus-master helped me to signal the woman off-stage, although even when the guards indicated with their halberds that she must come off-stage, she moved further forward in the light. Eventually she was pulled backwards. Whereupon, in silent fury, I tore at her skirt. I went on pulling at it in an ever-growing frenzy, but it would not give way. I was beside myself in a manner that surprised me. At last I heard a rending screech of a tear. I pulled downwards in spite of ‘Mr Beaton!!’ coming from the startled chorus-master. At last the lady was standing in her BVDs with an orange skirt in tatters on the floor around her. Then I rushed back to my stall. But to enjoy no peace. I almost had a heart attack. I sat with my face in my hands completely exhausted.
