Gordon beckoned me to the room where, on her small French bed, lay a strange object of art. A minute bird-like head, wrapped in a wimple-scarf, was for a moment quite unrecognizable as the person that I loved. And yet, as I studied it, the sharpness of the mouth and the beak were the same; but, without her colour, she had become as if carved in deep ivory: teeth, lips, eyelids and cheeks were all made of ivory. Death had changed her, but had shown her strength and ennobled her.

  It is difficult to realize that Emerald, always so immediate and vital, is now something of the past. I cannot believe that somewhere her force and vitality will not again emerge. For me, her death is as if a certain music had gone from life. I cannot believe that the old German liftman at the hotel will not take me up automatically to the seventh floor (707), and that I shall not be overjoyed by the sight of a great array of gilt chairs, cherry-coloured brocade, ormolu figures and, standing bird-like among her remaining possessions, Emerald, the most exquisite object of all. Like a fantastic, twittering canary in a pinchbeck cage, she would be holding forth with great originality, authority, and a unique attitude of mind on some most unexpected topic, even her own death. When asked by a friend if she would not like to die in her sleep, her reply was immediate: ‘No, I’d rather be shot.’ Emerald, a worshipper of beauty until the end, made her life into a work of art.

  PRINCE CHARLES

  December 1948

  Happily summoned to the Palace to take the first long-awaited photographs of the heir to the throne. Prince Charles, as he is to be named, was an obedient sitter. He interrupted a long, contented sleep to do my bidding and open his blue eyes to stare long and wonderingly into the camera lens, the beginning of a lifetime in the glare of public duty.

  THE LAURENCE OLIVIERS

  Thursday, January 24th, 1949

  I was now about to see how my work on the Olivier production of The School for Scandal had materialized. The preliminary work had been extremely pleasant; in fact, everything had gone so smoothly from the moment I first showed my rough designs. Larry and Vivien had come to dinner after his day’s shooting in Hamlet, and every proffered suggestion had been accepted with enthusiasm by him until, exhausted, Larry laid his head on the dining-table and went fast asleep.

  I knew only too well what a risk it is if a designer cannot supervise the execution of his work throughout every step of the way until the last moment before the curtain goes up on the first night. Inevitably readjustments have to be made as one discovers that a certain notion does not materialize as expected, or that an actor is unsuited to a particular garment. Someone else’s lighting can ruin the colours of a set, and a prop master can produce some anachronism that is so obvious that it is amazing that no one else has noticed it.

  Due to Larry’s Hamlet film having taken far longer to shoot than scheduled, and the subsequent postponement of his work on The School for Scandal, I had had to drag myself away towards the end of the preparations in order to fulfil a long since arranged photography contract in America. I was satisfied with the preliminary fittings for Lady Teazle’s clothes which made Vivien appear an exquisite figure of Chelsea china, and fortunately the scene painters seemed to have the time and talent to paint my sets to look exactly like enlargements of coloured engravings. But I knew I was leaving with the opportunities for so many cup and lip slips. Now, having finished the first stage of the work, I had to abandon it to others; it was like leaving a child to find its way alone.

  It must have been hell at the dress rehearsal when the designer was absent, and Mrs Candour wanted to change her bonnet and Sir Benjamin Backbite would suddenly like to add a muff to his costume. It was also a bloody nightmare for me — taking each theatre job as seriously as I do — knowing that the Atlantic was between me and any alterations that others were now perfunctorily thinking fit to make.

  The Olivier company went off to Australia and my contractual obligation was over. It was a great relief when clippings filtered back praising my work. It was an even greater relief when the company returned to open the play in London and Larry wired me (I was still in New York) that, in his first night ‘curtain’ speech my name had received the greatest applause of all.

  It was, therefore, a hideous surprise when, a few nights after my return to London, a comparative stranger who works in films, Anatole, known as Tolly, de Grunewald, came up to me and said: ‘My God, the Oliviers are gunning for you! What have you done to them?’ I was too breathless to reply, and did not wish to let this man see how shocked I was. I had felt that Larry and Vivien — particularly Vivien — were real friends, and I could think of no reason why they should both have anything against me.

  February 24th, 1949

  John Gielgud came with me to see the Sheridan play the next time it was given in the repertory. Over an early dinner John and I had a great deal to talk about though I did not mention to him the qualms I was feeling since I had met the ‘intolerable’ de Grunewald. We arrived too late at the New Theatre to call on the Oliviers before curtain time, but as we crawled into our seats the lights dimmed in the auditorium and went up on stage to reveal a richly-coloured engraving of Lady Sneerwell’s house with super-elegant footmen bowing, moving furniture and lighting candles. It was not surprising that I paid more attention to the decorative aspects of the evening than to the play and its performers; but I doubt if ever before have I, in the theatre, so unrestrainedly enjoyed the fruits of my own work. I was wreathed in rapturous smiles as one stage picture, and one delightful costume after another, appeared in the glow of a masterly lighting expert’s effects. John, likewise, was in a condition of euphoria about the whole evening and, at the end of the performance, together we went backstage to congratulate all concerned. Rather than visit each room together we decided to go our separate ways, John starting off with Larry while I tapped on Vivien’s door.

  On going into the leading lady’s dressing-room, in spite of the de Grunewald story, I expected the usual backstage superlatives, the ‘darlings’, the hugs and kisses. I met with a view of Vivien’s back; she did not turn round to greet me. I kept up a hollow flow of flattery, filled with green room jargon, in praise of her performance and her appearance. Vivien’s eyes of steel now stared at herself as she rubbed a slime of dirty cold cream, a blending of rouge, eyeblack, and white foundation over her face. Not one word did she say about my contribution to the evening. She broached no other subject, and answered any question with a monosyllable. Somehow, after a short while, I managed to extract myself from the room. Phew!

  Now I must face Larry and, possibly — though why I knew not the reason — the same frigid reception. It was worse than I could have expected: no smiles, no back thumping, and no ‘old mans’ or ‘old cocks’. Larry had some elder relation with him — a cleric to whom I was not introduced — who naturally monopolized his time and interest. I remained silently in the background, like a recalcitrant schoolboy waiting to be given a severe ‘dressing down’, by the ‘governor’. As soon as the clergyman was the other side of the door, in a panic to avoid a silence, I let forth an avalanche of praise about the production: about how right he was in his portrayal of a middle-aged, not a senile Sir Peter; about the prettiness of Vivien, the polish of the teamwork, and the charm of so much ‘business’ that he had invented — such as the cascade of bandboxes arriving at the front door as an indication of Lady Teazle’s extravagances. But no reaction: even the most fulsome compliments failed to thaw the temperature. I suppose I should have asked Larry quite bluntly why he and Vivien had suddenly adopted this extraordinary attitude — in fact, it must appear incomprehensible that I did not — but I am always anxious to avoid a row if it is possible to do so. I know, in the theatre, that great explosions of temperament take place on an impulse; appalling things are said in the heat of the moment. Wounding, vile insults are thrown around when the adrenalin rises. But everything is forgiven and forgotten on arrival at the theatre next day. Some people enjoy these blood-lettings: I do not. In fact, if I have to be subjected to an unpleasant scene, or someone is wounding to me, it is likely to be a very long time before the scars are healed.

  Larry’s dresser now became the focus of his attention: whispered instructions given about his clothes... Then the dresser left, and still Larry addressed no word to me. The silence was broken by John Gielgud coming into the room. I don’t know if John noticed anything peculiarly cold about the atmosphere, and I did not mention it to him when, a few moments later, together we left the theatre. But once outside the confines of ‘backstage’ my indignation rose to the surface. I knew that, such is my unforgiving, unforgetting nature, no matter how hard the Oliviers might try, one day, to make up for this evening’s affront, I would have no further interest in them — let alone feel that we were friends. They were both out of my life for ever.

  Part II: Holidays and Visits, 1949

  VILLA MAURESQUE AND SOMERSET MAUGHAM

  Winter, 1949

  A vicious attack of the prevalent ‘flu felled me completely. For several weeks I tried from my bed to carry on with writing, but I knew I was working under an impossible disadvantage: I seemed to make no progress. When my kind neighbours, Juliet Duff and Simon Fleet, sent me a telegram from the south of France to say Willie Maugham would like me to join them and recuperate in the winter sun, I was soon on an airplane.

  My friendship with Willie had only recently started. A few days before taking a ship in New York to return to England, I met another fellow-passenger, one of my oldest and most delightful New York friends, Monroe Wheeler, an erudite and entertaining director of the Museum of Modern Art. He told me: ‘Willie wondered if you would care to have your meals on board with us?’ Not only was I delighted to be with two such excellent conversationalists, but I was pleased to have this opportunity of perhaps getting to know Willie a little less formally.

  My first acquaintance with him had been when, at the start of my professional career as a photographer, he came to my parents’ drawing-room to be photographed for Vanity Fair. He was shy: I was shy. The sitting did not become alive. I gave him cursory instructions as to where to place his arms and hands. He obeyed: ‘Thus?’ or ‘So?’ As a result the photographs were completely static. Although we then became acquaintances over a long period of years, he never seemed to thaw — certainly not towards me. I doubt if this had anything to do with the fact that his wife, the effervescent Syrie, whom he detested, became a particular friend of mine.

  On the first day of the Atlantic crossing Willie at dinner said: ‘Sissel, I hear you’ve written a very good play. I would like to read it; have you a copy on board?’ I lied. I wished to do a lot more rewriting on it. Couldn’t I send him a copy later? Then, of course, I realized that there would surely never again be such an opportunity to benefit by his advice. I owned up to my lie, and sent the play to his cabin.

  At luncheon next day Willie said: ‘I have read your play, and I will tell you what I think of it at some more suitable time, and in private.’ I was full of nervous anxiety at the prospect of the acid test. Of late I had been becoming increasingly dubious about the merits of this gigantic opus; but if I am to go ahead and put it, as I hoped, before the public, it would be asinine to flinch at hearing the opinion of a dramatist who really knows what he is talking about.

  The following day I was pacing the deck with Monroe when he said: ‘Willie was in wonderful form before luncheon. He came down feeling rather crotchety after a sleepless night. He asked me to take the air with him, and he told me he was worried about what he was going to say to you about the play. Then, proceeding to tell me what he thought of it, he warmed to the task, and when his thoughts were formulated and straight in his head, he said: “Now I think I’ll sit down and have a drink.” The relief of having got off his mind all he had to say to you was so great that his spirits then began to soar. He was unusually comic — never been in better form!’

  At luncheon in the restaurant we talked about Willie’s collection of Zoffanys and his other theatrical pictures, about the Old Vic company, a comparison of Noël’s and Terry’s dramatic talents — but never a word about my play. Eventually I asked when could I have the interview?

  ‘This afternoon at three-thirty.’

  Precisely on the moment he appeared: ‘We had better go into the dining-room: it is quiet there.’

  It was as if I were ‘up to the head beak’; I was terrified.

  ‘Well, Sissel, I’ve read your play with a great deal of interest. It is extremely well written and constructed, and the story is very moving. The characters are excellent, and it’s dramatic.’ (My heart beat with relief and joy!) ‘But there is one thing that worries me very much indeed: you must explain it to me. Why do the characters of Gainsborough and the auctioneer, Christie, talk in a quasi-eighteenth-century manner but then address one another by their Christian names?’ Willie recommended Jane Austen and Fielding and that I should read Clarissa Harlowe and Sheridan to give the play a far more authentic eighteenth-century flavour. Or perhaps I would prefer to use a contemporary dialect? Then it would be correct to use such phrases as “a place in the sun” which was said by Germans before the last war. “Giving someone a lift” is entirely modern. You must make up your mind which idiom you are going to use.’

  I confessed to ignorance and slovenliness and an inattention to detail. Willie also told me he thought the ending could be strengthened. ‘You want your final curtain to be something that will make your audience sit up: yours is too arbitrary.’ He made the suggestion that I should bring back the dashing young Lord Angus to buy his own portrait, and when the two daughters, both of whom had so disastrously loved him, saw him again, neither could recognize him. Poor, dotty Mary, who has been seduced by him, might ask: ‘Who was that man?’

  I agreed gladly with everything Willie told me. The criticisms seemed so unimportant compared to my fears that he might say that my play was split down the middle, that it contained some irrevocable fault of construction. What a relief to feel that basically the workmanship was sound, and comparatively little wrong that could not be remedied. Willie stuttered: ‘I d-don’t know w-whether or not you are prepared to go to all this t-t-trouble; but if you don’t, you’ll have people laughing at you for these an-an-anachronisms.’

  Willie does not realize the vast amount of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century plays I have read and the research I have done (all so very agreeable) in order to arrive at a style that does not smack the ear as being archaic, yet is not jarringly of today: he does not know the lengths to which I am determined to go to make even the smallest improvements. He has no idea how ambitious I am to succeed in any major project I undertake — but more than ever in this particular one.

  I thawed towards Willie. The little vellum mask with its tired eyes and drawn mouth suddenly seemed to gain a lost youthfulness and vitality. The eyes twinkled, and the lips smiled albeit in a downward curve. I was amused to know that he was pleased at the way the interview had gone and at the success of his own performance. Quite suddenly he got up and said: ‘Now, Sissel, I’m going to leave you for the cinema,’ and he bolted out of the room having written ‘finish’ successfully to another everyday chore.

  By the end of the trip I felt more sympathetic to Willie than ever before; but he still seemed too remote to consider as a friend.

  Life at the Villa Mauresque is ideal for the semi-invalid: breakfast in bed; the garden below the balcony a sea of magenta and blue cinerarias; no need to put in an appearance before midday. The large salon, with french windows opening onto a terrace, is impressively decorated with a huge sunburst of gilt carving, much golden gesso, huge sofas, and eighteenth-century paintings in carved frames. On the terrace the lunch visitors assemble: maybe witty, delicious and slightly scatty Lady Kitty Lambton with piercing eyes and iron-grey curls, the raven beauty Muriel Wilson who had been part of King Edward’s coterie, renowned for organizing amateur theatricals, and who owned the famous nearby ‘Maryland’ garden. One day that old silenus Marc Chagall appeared with an astonishingly young and pretty wife. For me the special treat was the arrival of Graham and Kathy Sutherland. He is still working on the drawings for a portrait of Willie, and those I’ve seen are brilliant. Graham does not spare any horses, and he has made Willie as sour as a quince — yet Willie seems delighted.

  Occasionally we go off to the Château de Madrid or to the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo to have some appallingly over-rich meal with Lady Bateman. Lady Bateman, a wealthy widow with very little brain under a magnificent head of snow-white hair, is pretty, snobbish and spoilt. No matter how late she returns from a dinner party to her hotel suite, her maid must wait up for her to brush her hair with starch. Her lunches are generally given in aid of some local celebrity such as Prince Pierre de Monaco, and this Edwardian hospitality is something from which Juliet, who suffered an excess of it in her youth and has since devoted her life to artists and intellectuals, longs to absent herself. But for Willie’s guests this is one of the few obligations. Yet we wonder why Willie bothers himself with such a group. It is odd that he seems to dislike the company of his fellow-writers, and finds people who have not been able to succeed with the difficulties of old age anathema to him. He was grateful to poor, dithering, bleating, stuttering Eddie Marsh for proof-reading some forthcoming publication of his, and felt he should be invited to stay for a fortnight. Juliet agreed that it would be a treat for Eddie, who was finding time going slowly for him. ‘No,’ decided Willie quite suddenly, ‘I couldn’t stand it! I’ll send him a case of brandy.’

 

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