UNEXPURGATED BEATON, THE(ISBN=) 英文原版

　　Hugo Vickers is the author of Gladys, Duchess of
Marlborough; Cecil Beaton; Vivien Leigh; Loving Garbo; and
Alice, Princess Andrew of Greece, among other books.
He lives in London and Hampshire with his wife and his three
children.

　　Chapter 1
　　1970
　　Cecil Beaton entered the new decade at Reddish House, the country
home at Broadchalke, not far from Salisbury, to which he had
retreated regularly since he bought it in 1948. Here he was able to
lay aside the studied image he wore in London and the United
States, and relish all aspects of country life. His friend Michael
Pitt-Rivers once asked him, “Cecil, why is it that you are so
loathsome in London and yet so delightful in the country?” Cecil
mused a moment and confessed, “It’s true!” A sterner note was added
by another Wiltshire neighbour, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, who
stated simply, “We wouldn’t let him get away with it.”
　　Cecil was fortunate to live in a beautiful and historical part of
the country, not far from Stonehenge and Old Sarum, near the great
stately home of Wilton, seat of the Earl and Countess of Pembroke,
and with sympathetic neighbours in and around the area of the
Chalke Valley, the Earl and Countess of Avon at Alvediston, Michael
and Anne Tree in Donhead, Lord and Lady David Cecil, Viscount and
Viscountess Head, Richard Buckle at Semley, Billy Henderson and
Frank Tait in Tisbury
　　This country life afforded him welcome respite from the more
synthetic worlds in which he made his living, the magazine world of
London, Paris and New York, and none more remunerative, yet more
irksome to him, than the world of show business on Broadway and in
Hollywood.
　　When in London, he lived at 8 Pelham Place, a late-Georgian house
in South Kensington, which he had bought in 1940. He was there
during the week, though at every opportunity he escaped to the
country.
　　Cecil had indeed lately returned to Britain from a disagreeable
stint in New York, designing Coco, a musical based on the life of
the celebrated monstre sacré icon of twentieth-century fashion,
“Coco” Chanel. She was a peasant-born seamstress, who became a
legendary figure in the world of haute couture, creating nimble and
stylish suits and freeing women of the encumbrances of formal
clothing. Her empire has thrived since her death.
　　The musical starred the legendary American film star Katharine
Hepburn as Chanel. She was one of the few great stars of stage and
early screen to survive into the twenty-first century. Her
“apple-a-day” smile and her long, discreet affair with Spencer
Tracy assured her a place in many hearts, if not Cecil’s. She had
mistrusted Cecil since he had written of her “rocking-horse
nostrils” and her “tousled beetroot-coloured hair” in Cecil
Beaton’s Scrapbook in 1937, not to mention his concluding that she
was “in close proximity very like any exceedingly animated and
delightful hockey mistress at a Physical Training College.” Hepburn
insured that, in his Coco contract, he was forbidden to publish a
single word about her.
　　The musical was written by Alan Jay Lerner, the brilliant,
nervous, highly strung playwright, with music by André Previn.
Lerner was normally partnered by Fritz Loewe, who wrote the music.
Lerner and Loewe were the team which had created Gigi and My Fair
Lady. Lerner once vexed himself over the line: “Those little eyes
so helpless and appealing, one day will flash and send you crashing
through the ceiling.” Loewe reassured him: “It’s your lyric and if
you want to crash through the ceiling, crash through the ceiling!”
Lerner wrote the words for Coco, but unfortunately he and Cecil
fell out badly during this show, because Cecil always needed a hate
figure and this time it was Alan. Cecil blamed him for causing
Rosalind Russell (the American leading lady in films who favoured
roles as a career woman and starred in Gypsy) to be dropped in
favour of Katharine Hepburn.
　　This was the more strange, since the show was produced by
Frederick Brisson, businessman producer, who had been trying to get
the musical into production since 1954. He was a man of limited
charm, who was married to Rosalind Russell. Elaine Stritch called
him “The Wizard of Ros.” He was the son of Carl Brisson, the Danish
director, an international favourite of stage and screen, who made
many films in Britain.
　　Katharine Hepburn and Cecil were not soulmates.
　　Coco and Katharine Hepburn in retrospect[December 1969]
　　No cause for regrets. I knew the show would be no good with such
a rotten book. I never fooled myself into thinking the book could
be sufficiently improved. It’s no good wondering if Alan Lerner had
not made a great mistake by throwing out Rosalind Russell (done in
such a dishonest, beastly way) in favour of Katharine Hepburn. In
fact R. R. would have given a better performance, would have
projected the songs better, but the show would not have succeeded
in becoming a smash hit, though it might have lasted longer than it
will if K. H. is still determined to leave at the end of
April.
　　It may, however, suit her to stay on to receive the applause of
the multitudes. She is the egomaniac of all time and her whole life
is devised to receive the standing ovation that she has had at the
end of her great personality performance. As the play nears its end
and she is sure of her success, she becomes raged, the years roll
off her, and she becomes a young schoolmistress. Up till then she
has, to my way of thinking, been as unlike Chanel as anyone could
be. With the manners of an old sea salt, spreading her ugly
piano-calved legs in the most indecent positions, even kicking her
protégée with her foot in the “London” scene, standing with her
huge legs wide apart and being in every gesture as unfeminine and
unlike the fascinating Chanel as anyone could be. Her performance
is just one long series of personal mannerisms.
　　I would not have thought audiences could react so admiringly, yet
the first time I saw a run-through rehearsal, I was impressed and
even touched. But ever since I’ve found her performance mechanical,
inept (her timing is erratic), she stops and laughs, she falters
over words, she is maladroit, and she is ugly. That beautiful bone
structure of cheekbone, nose and chin goes for nothing in the
surrounding flesh of the New England shopkeeper. Her skin is
revolting and since she does not apply enough make-up even from the
front she appears pockmarked. In life her appearance is appalling,
a raddled, rash-ridden, freckled, burnt, mottled, bleached and
wizened piece of decaying matter. It is unbelievable, incredible
that she can still be exhibited in public.
　　Fred Brisson tells me that one day he will repeat the vile things
she has said about me. As it is I have heard that she has
complained about my being difficult, stubborn. She obviously does
not trust me or have confidence in my talent. She pretends to be
fairly friendly and direct, but she has never given me any
friendship, never spoken to me of anything that has not direct
bearing on the part that she is playing.
　　I have determined not to have a row with her, have put up with a
great deal of double-crossing, chicanery and even deceit. She has
behaved unethically in altering her clothes without telling me,
asserting her “own” taste instead of mine. (On the first night she
appeared in her own hat instead of the one that went with the blue
on her costume. Instead of the Chanel jewellery she wears a little
paste brooch chosen by her friend . . . in quiet good taste.) She
is suspicious and untrustworthy.
　　Never has anyone been so one-tracked in their determination to
succeed. She knows fundamentally that she has no great talent as an
actress. This gives her great insecurity so she must expend
enormous effort in overcoming this by asserting herself in as
strident a manner as only she knows how. She must always be proved
right, only she knows, no matter what the subject. It is
extraordinary that she has not been paid out for her lack of taking
advice. But even if this is her last job, and it won’t be, she will
have had an incredible run for incredible money. She owns $20
million. She is getting $13,000 a week. But in spite of her
success, her aura of freshness and natural directness, she is a
rotten, ingrained viper. She has no generosity, no heart, no grace.
She is a dried-up boot. Completely lacking in feminine grace, in
manners, she cannot smile except to bare her teeth to give an
effect of utter youthfulness and charm. (This, one of her most
valuable stage assets, is completely without feeling.) She is
ungenerous, never gives a present, and miserly. She lives like a
miser, bullies Phyllis [Willbourn] and thinks only of herself day
and night. Garbo has magic. Garbo is a miracle with many of the
same faults, but Hepburn is synthetic, lacking in the qualities
that would make such an unbearable human being into a real
artist.
　　I hope I never have to see her again.
　　Cecil was fond of his Wiltshire neighbours. He was devoted to
Michael and Anne Tree, and relished having them as nearish
neighbours at Donhead. Michael was the son of Ronald Tree and his
wife, Nancy Lancaster. Lady Anne was a daughter of the tenth Duke
of Devonshire. They were rich and deployed their riches with style,
commissioning Sir Geoffrey Jellicoe to create their garden at Shute
House.
　　Cecil was reading Enid Bagnold’s autobiography. Enid was best
known for National Velvet and The Chalk Garden. She lived at
Rottingdean, an addict of vast doses of morphine. Cecil had fallen
out with her over his sets for The Chalk Garden, which he designed
in New York. To his rage, the sets were not used in the London
production. Over twenty years of non-speaks ensued. Enid’s
autobiography (Heinemann, 1969) was a remarkable book. She had been
scared to write it for fear of upsetting her children with an
account of her affair, as a young girl, with the literary lothario,
Frank Harris. This she covered with eloquence: ” ‘Sex,’ said Frank
Harris, ‘is the gateway to life.’ So I went through the gateway in
an upper room in the Café Royal.”
　　Cecil was expecting the arrival of Eileen Hose, his secretary.
She joined him in 1953 and stayed with him until the end, becoming
housekeeper, nurse, amanuensis, accountant and best friend. After
his death she served as Literary Executor and settled his affairs,
donating his papers to St. John’s College, Cambridge, organising a
sale of his drawings and paintings, and giving his Royal
photographs to the Victoria and Albert Museum.
　　Boxing Day26 December 1969
　　Such a wonderful illuminating view from the top of the Downs,
looking over the distances of Fonthill as I drove out to my
Christmas Day lunch with the Trees. It was a sunny day and the
winter scene was strangely soft and welcoming in a haze of
sweet-pea colours, pale buff, pale mauves, pale blues and rose, the
sight was eternal. It was of simple basic shapes, the distant woods
were bare and just like patches of colour, no trimming, a living
sculpture. Something breathing and alive, but unmoving. It was the
best I’d seen since I left and I only now realised what solace to
the spirit I have been missing. I was pleased with Anne’s highly
civilised conversation, so basic and honest and funny. She is one
of the best that England produces, and I came away deeply satisfied
with my happy outing to read Enid Bagnold’s remarkably excellent
autobiography. This is a great lesson in depth and all her
qualities are apparent (also her dislikeable-ness-she is not a nice
person). But her honesty and strength of character are amazing and
I feel sorry that she should have spent so much time writing plays
at which she is no good.
　　Her description of past events reminded me of the Japanese film
Rashomon where so many people tell their varying versions of the
truth. I knew so much that Enid believed in was not the same as I
feel to be the truth. But the book kept me riveted for 2 days and
it is a remarkable legacy for her to leave, an important and
profound reportage in-depth of a strange, remarkable, original and
warped life.
　　By degrees, the cotton wool gives place to sinew and muscle, and
I am able to keep awake for a few hours. There are no pressing
engagements and this gives me a wonderful feeling of luxury. The
house is warm and scented with Smallpeice’s pot plants and the
neighbours I visit seem lively and bright, and when Eileen arrives
with Alan and Charles, there is much laughter and the memories of
51st Street are fading quietly as my brain is filled with other
music played on the record player.
　　5 January 1970
　　I kept this bloody diary every day while I was busy with idiotic
events in New York. Now that I am quietly ensconced in the country,
in my own adorable surroundings, I find I have not one moment of
energy to even find where I have left this book. Ten happy days
have passed. The first 5 were spent almost exclusively in sleep. I
could not keep awake after I had had my late breakfast. I slept all
afternoon and 12 hours at night. Then I started to read-Enid
Bagnold-her autobiography-her plays. Then I started to write (the
Sam Green piece) and every day was filled. Social life at a
maximum, dinners or visits of succour to recent widows-Essex,
Pembroke, Radnor, David, Dot and Anthony come to dine (spent from a
pro-Communist on-thrust from Dot, which angers Anthony). The
evening was a marvel of intelligence and delight and I was so
pleased, when, as a result of the flowers Smallpeice has produced
all over the house, Dot examining the dining table said “You have
banished winter.”
　　A recurring feature of Cecil’s life was to be entertained by the
super-rich. On the one hand, he loved the luxury and the chance to
observe them. On the other hand, he was jealous of their riches and
disapproving of their way of life. His hosts in Palm Beach in
January 1970 were the Guinnesses.4
　　Group Captain Loel Guinness and his third wife Gloria were
supremely rich members of the Guinness clan. Loel was the father of
Lindy, Marchioness of Dufferin and Ava. Gloria’s past was less
clear. She was the daughter of Raphael Rubio, of Mexico, and had
been married to Count Egon von Fürstenberg and Prince Ahmed Fakri.
She was popular with young aristocratic men, whom she initiated
into the ways of the world. In later life, when people like Cecil
complained that their private parts were getting smaller, she would
mutter, “I wish mine were.”