The Restless Years (1955-63)

by Cecil Beaton

  I knew that my mother’s death was a relief, that it was something we had even prayed for. She was no longer anything but a living anxiety to herself and to us. Now that it had happened, one remembered the past, the difficult times and the good times. I remembered so many of the incidents from my earliest days. The snapshots of my mother in 1902 fashions with wide sleeves and upturned hats, dangling me on a knee in a hotel sun-lounger or on the sands; the snapshots in the little front garden with its black and white stone path; the baskets of geraniums, and the string-laced green blinds at Langland Gardens. In such a long life as hers — she was born in 1872 — the snapshots filled many albums, from the time that she smiled coyly as my father’s affianced, to the sad time when with wild, white hair she sat impatiently on the terrace.

  I remembered the wonderful, soft kindness of her welcome. There was something about going back to her protection that was different from anything in the world.

  One of one’s greatest early childhood pleasures was to be allowed into her bedroom, and to snuggle up close to her in bed, while she read her letters, and made all life seem sweetness, kindness and happiness.

  My childhood was idyllically happy, with occasional dramas of a sudden thunderstorm during a picnic, a musician almost getting drowned while bathing, a case of scarlet fever, and the annual exodus with hold-alls and a hip bath. My mother soon after arrival at the seaside was always struck with a sick headache.

  These early years were almost cloudless. There were jokes about Daddy putting on uniform in the 1914 war, and, when meeting someone unexpectedly, doffing his cap instead of saluting; there was the excitement of coming down, wrapped in a rug in the middle of the night, during the Zeppelin raids.

  But it was only much later that things started to go wrong. My mother seemed vaguely worried that Daddy complained about business not doing so well, and after we had moved from Temple Court, where all was halcyon, and arrived in Hyde Park Street, troubles were combined with miseries and anxieties; then my brother’s death, which affected my father so grievously; and then my mother was my responsibility. Sometimes we quarrelled, as is only natural with two such strong characters living in close proximity. My mother could never believe that I had ceased to be a child.

  I rushed out into the garden, and blubbing like a fool, walked up and down the lawns in the cold air. I wanted to die of my grief. After a time Nancy came out and, her arm in mine, told me how marvellously peaceful the end had been; how fortunate that it had been so painless and dignified. How Mummie had given Nancy two seraphic smiles then turned on her side, and breathed like a child, and then no longer breathed. ‘You must go and see her. There is nothing frightening about it. She looks beautiful.’

  Mummie lay in her darkened bedroom very low in her bed. I was surprised to see how small she was; her head had been tied with a white cloth under the chin. On her chest Nancy had put a little bunch of flowers that she had picked from the garden-pink azaleas, violets, snowdrops, primroses and jasmine. She looked vulnerable and trusting. Her forehead was so cold. I hurried from the room.

  I could not wait at the church lychgate after the Broadchalke service for the usual politenesses — the shaking hands, and commiserative smiles. I bolted. I rushed back shivering to my bed, and remained in a daze.

  MY MOTHER’S FUNERAL AT HAMPSTEAD

  March 2nd

  West End Lane looked very small. The single line of traffic made progress very slow today. The funeral-parlour chauffeur drove with extreme caution; even the windows fogged up and my black-gloved hand wiped the steam off the window, the better to see the well-known landmarks.

  The shops that I remembered from childhood had long since passed into other hands. Once there had been a shop that contained a wonderful revolving picture-postcard stand, with rare pictures of my favourite actresses; a nice sweet-shop and a dry cleaners with a beaded evening-dress in the window; and I noticed a great number of fruit and vegetable emporiums with huge pyramids of oranges and apples. Outside another, a dark, burly young man was unloading sacks from a truck. The snow was coming down so fast that his hair became white, and he had to shake the snow from the sacks before taking them into a bird and tackle shop which also advertised ‘cat boarding’.

  On arrival at the cemetery the snow was deep. Some brightly coloured wreaths lay by the porter’s lodge. We drove on slowly. Nancy and Hugh Smiley had arrived from the country and were visible as they waited behind the steamy windows of an overheated motor. We progressed in the motors a few hundred feet and waited. There was no message to say that the hearse would be late, but the snowy journey from Salisbury must have delayed matters.

  The clergyman was waiting by a chapel. A few old, red-faced gravediggers hung about. We looked at the acres and acres of Victorian and Edwardian tombs. Sorrowing angels with rose garlands mourning an elderly couple who died in 1889 and 1896. Some of the ‘last messages’ were unfortunately phrased. ‘She was the eyes of the blind, the feet of the lame.’ The snow was falling in heavy flakes onto granite crosses and obelisks. It was so white that the sky seemed khaki-coloured.

  The last journey. My darling mother was brought, under a purple velvet pall and our lilies, to her last bed. We followed to the family vault. We stood, a forlorn, black, family group. The clergyman, with a very red nose, was reading the last prayers. We were sad as the gravediggers, banded together, moved the coffin towards the grave, then slowly lowered it into the Beaton tomb. A kindly-looking old Shakespearean dropped a handful of earth onto the coffin, and we encroached very slowly to look our last. Nancy threw a little bunch of snowdrops onto the coffin. I saw my mother’s name engraved on a brass plate, and beneath this coffin was another one, mouldering with age, possibly the coffin containing the remains of my father.

  Baba, who is generally so calm and self-contained, whimpered and was comforted by Nancy, whose complexion in the intense cold was dazzlingly pink and white. We looked at the flowers. The snow made our lily cross look dark-ivory coloured, but some kind friends had sent some carnations and they were a bright spot in this bleak Giselle scene. We got back into the two motors and, leaving our mother to lie in the cold earth, we returned to our everyday life.

  NIGERIAN INTERLUDE: THE ‘SALLA’ AT KATSINA

  Northern Nigeria: March 1962

  Just as music can create certain sensations, so here, by the unexpected effect of the use of black, scarlet, blue or purple, colour creates a vital emotion. How can one explain that even pale colours create a shock of pleasure, violent and deeply overwhelming? Polo ponies are dyed carrot-pink; a horse is covered with a cloth of lettuce-green; a whole army wears magenta, or wasp-like stripes of orange and black; a turban like a cloud of peppermint. There is no apparent method in these groupings of colours, but somehow they combine to form a picture which is totally African in flavour, and produces, in the spectator, a state of elation.

  The Emir of Katsina is holding the Salla, which celebrates the appearance of the new moon and the breaking of the thirty-days fast of Ramadan. The variety of different materials used in this splendid spectacle range from embroidered cloths and silk from Damascus to fabrics of cotton from Manchester; silver thread of the eleventh century is surprisingly used next to a Victorian rose-budded chintz; butter muslin is combined with cloth of gold, brocade and tinsel are mingled, and the shine on the aubergine-coloured turbans is produced by an almost endless knifing of the leather.

  The Emir has passed in procession through the fourteen gates of the city to the prayer ground. Here, guarded by his two war leaders, the Auraka, with unsheathed sword held aloft, he has given thanks for the benefits his people have continued to enjoy and is now returning to receive their homage.

  In the far distance the drums can be heard by the crowds bordering the big square at the gates of the Palace. The tambari (tambourines) are beaten only in the immediate presence of the Emir, and they produce an excitement among the pale blue-and-white-clad population that has to be kept in check by police equipped with whips.


  A huge bronze figure in white, scarlet and emerald (the Court Jester), shouts his lungs out as he introduces the entertainment about to be enjoyed. The open square is invaded by hundreds of laughing boys weaving and twirling upon bicycles like the clowns that somersault into the arena at a circus.

  It can now be seen that the drums are being beaten by frenzied drummers mounted on camels, and haunting sounds issue from the long ancient metal horns being blown by musicians with melon-fat cheeks. The brass hats and tall black feathers of the Emir’s personal bodyguards are worn with chain mail armour that goes back to the time of the Saracens. Their richly caparisoned steeds are weighed down by elaborate harnesses trimmed with scarlet and yellow tassels.

  Then on foot come the beautiful scarlet and viridian cotton-clad army of the Dogari, the watchmen, who, together with the archers or men-scouts, flank the Emir on all sides. Their emerald and pale-green uniform originated as camouflage in the jungle. Violent, warriorlike women, with startling black head-dresses, lurch flat-footed while brandishing ferocious knives and cutlasses.

  Under a huge, whirling, red-brocade parasol, in a din of music and song and wild cries of fervent admiration, trots the smiling Emir. As leader of his people he is suitably dressed in modest white.

  When his white stallion reaches the end of the great square, the ruler halts, turns, and then proceeds to watch the Jasi. This is the display of horsemanship and bravery enacted by his loyal supporters who have come from all parts of his Emirate to show proof of how brave they would be in support of their Chief in time of war.

  The Jagi (the Master of the Horse), in gold tunic and huge red turban, rushes around in harassed, Alice-in-Wonderland fashion to stage-manage the details. Suddenly, horsemen emitting wild cries, wielding aloft ferocious long spears, gallop forward in a cloud of dust to within a few yards of the Emir. Precipitously, they turn, then, amidst a storm of applause, give way to the next charge. This is not a commercial make-believe, or a film. It is part of a real fairy story that has continued and survived since the Crusades.

  After an hour’s display of skill and daring, speed and control, demonstrated with a casual bravado, the Jasi is over. Now the populace, so long kept at bay, in one wild rush burst from all sides to fill the square. The dust-storm thus created settles, to reveal thousands of massed heads looking like caviar of opals and black seed-pearls.

  The Emir delivers a speech to his people. He advises them to be active in growing crops and maintaining the cultivation of the land by which they live. They must not neglect to fertilise the earth, and he warns them not to relax in their fight against meningitis and disease.

  When at length the Emir retires to the private apartments in the compound, it is to witness a family demonstration of the loyalty, affection and love of his more immediate dependants; the womenfolk, servants and wives of menservants of the Palace, do war dances and scream with joy. The scarlet archers dance in circles with swords: they are said to have eaten certain medieval herbs which have made them immune to cuts by metal, knife, axe or arrow. They shriek war-cries and proceed to carve with sharp steel, in a frenzy of enthusiasm, even their most delicate parts.

  The Emir realises the humour of certain situations and throws back his head in guffaws. He is enjoying his day of ceremonial and avowal of faith.

  For all of those who live under the stress of modern civilisation, with its onslaught of noise, smells, commercialism, ever-increasing speed and refinements of killing, and for all those conscious of the Damoclean sword of nuclear war, a visit to Katsina is in the nature of a return to sanity. This is something that the human mind can comprehend. Katsina has always been noted for its learning and culture, and has attracted people of all nations since 1100, when it became the centre for the caravan trade with the Mediterranean ports. Today life seems easy. There are no signs of painful poverty. Prayers are said in thankfulness for continuing peace, but also that if battles must be fought they shall be feats of bravery, daring and horsemanship.

  DINNER WITH JULIET DUFF

  Wiltshire: April 14th

  Juliet is not having a holiday this August. ‘I’ve had so many expenses. The wall fell down in the kitchen garden and the greenhouse needed repairs, and we had to have the hall recarpeted because of the dog stains. Everything costs so much that we’ve had to send a bit of jewellery up to Sotheby’s.’

  In spite of her strong personality, she is a weak character, gutless and apt to change her opinions according to those of others. But the fault that has increased with age is her scattiness.

  Tonight Juliet was on her mettle as Lady Churchill was staying for the weekend; Raymond Mortimer was there too. Like the Edwardian hostess that she is, Juliet was determined to stage-manage her little party and to give her chief guests an opportunity to shine. Somehow she managed only a few interruptions, but these were easily parried by Lady Churchill who is a good talker and accustomed to holding the stage.

  Clementine Churchill told us about her friendship with Walter Sickert whom she knew first when she was a gangling, fifteen-year-old schoolgirl at Dieppe. She said that he was a most wonderful-looking man, living in lodgings that were owned by a Madame Villain, who had several children running around with a marked resemblance to him. But of course as a schoolgirl she had no idea that the rather possessive housekeeper was anything more than just that.

  ‘Which is Mr Sickert’s room?’ the young Clementine had asked.

  ‘He’s out!’

  ‘But he asked me to come and see him!’

  The landlady smiled in an enigmatic way. ‘You can go in and see if you don’t believe me.’

  The bedroom that confronted the visitor was in an appalling state. The bed had not been made; there were unattractive sights under the bed; and there was a fish skeleton on an old plate on the windowsill. Clementine described how she cleared up the room; she made the bed, covered it with a counterpane (pronounced ‘counter-pin’) and with delicate fingers tossed the fish remains into a convenient dustbin which she found outside the window. When Sickert came back a little later he was not at all pleased to find that his ‘nature morte’ had been destroyed.

  Sickert had never painted his ardent young admirer, but once, when she arrived red-faced and radiant from a hockey match, he took a red-hot poker from the fire and burnt on wood a caricature of her, thin and beaky-nosed, with the hockey stick. ‘That is to show you how you look.’ ‘It was a most excellent likeness,’ the sitter conceded.

  Four years later the young girl was told by her mother that she could go to Paris with her governess and stay as long as they could on £25. By eating little they managed to stay for two weeks. While they were there Sickert called most unexpectedly one morning at eight o’clock, with a bag of brioches, to take the nineteen-year-old girl out to see Paris and some pictures. (The governess was delighted to have the day off to visit relations.) Sickert and Clementine went to a cafe in the Champs Elysées for breakfast of beer and brioches. The beer was not paid for, but marked up as being another debt that Sickert owed.

  Sickert appeared to have no money, and they walked everywhere. First to the Louvre, where Clementine was asked which was her favourite picture. She pointed out Sargent’s La Carmenita. ‘That shows your bad taste,’ said Sickert. ‘Now look at this Puvis de Chavannes!’

  ‘Oh well, that’s a classical picture,’ retorted the defiant girl. From the Luxembourg gardens they walked all over Paris until past lunchtime. Again Sickert was not able to pay for their meal, and a chalk mark was put up on a board.

  ‘Now I’ll take you to see someone you’ll never forget,’ and together they went to visit Pissarro, who sat wearing a large black hat, surrounded by his enormous family. As the night approached, Sickert said: ‘And now I’ll show you a fashionable painter,’ and, wisely enough, they dined with Jacques-Emile Blanche, for he provided excellent food and wines.

  The young girl’s infatuation with Sickert did not burgeon. Later in life the two seldom met, and she grew to have rather a poor
opinion of the great man for ‘He was, I think, without doubt, the most selfish human being I’ve ever come across.’

  PARIS

  May 1962

  The experience of working on The School for Scandal for the Comédie Française has been in great contrast to some of the jobs I’ve had in the theatre on Broadway and even in London. Each department is headed by an artist, someone who understands the difference between thirty different colours of grey. The tailor spends a morning finding the right silk for a lining or button for a waistcoat; the wig-maker spends infinite time annotating one’s wishes; and the head of the scene painting says, ‘You must be sure and tell us if you’re disappointed with the work and think it should be done with more refinement.’

  As for Karinska, to work with her is to feel that it is easy to design and make beautiful costumes.

  Raymond Gerome was always so calm and polite I found it hard to understand that excellent work could result with a display of so little temperament.

  As for the authors, Barillet and Gredy, they were enthusiastic and sometimes critical aids to a final effect, and the Administrator, Monsieur Escande, gave forth a flow of gracious compliments that could not fail to gladden my heart.

  It is a delightful world of creativity and my last three visits to Paris have centred around those descendants of the seventeenth-century theatre who work in those eighteenth-century attics by the Palais Royal, doing the classics as if for the first time. My new Paris celebrities are M. Chaplain, the perruquier, who smells strongly of fish after lunch, his wife, with her white Gainsborough Pomeranian lying by her side as she works through thick glasses on a front piece of hair; the head cutter, Ernest, with feminine hands, who lovingly smooths a perfectly cut hunting coat; and Mr Hoff, in charge of the stage.