Cecil Beaton's Private Eye

Though the author published six volumes of memoirs during his lifetime, he left out his most damning assessments of the rich, famous, and royal. Katharine Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, and Princess Margaret are among the victims in this excerpt from the late photographer and designer's unexpurgated diaries

SOCIETY

KATHARINE HEPBURN, DECEMBER 1969

Beaton spent several months of 1969 in New York, designing Coco, a musical based on the life of the celebrated icon of 20th-century fashion "Coco" Chanel. It was written by Alan Jay Lerner, who with composer Frederick Loewe had created My Fair Lady and Gigi, which Beaton had also designed. The music for Coco was by Andre Previn. The show starred the great film star Katharine Hepburn as Chanel. Hepburn and Beaton were not soul mates.

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 in favor 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, 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 protegee 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 its surrounding flesh of the New England shopkeeper. Her skin is revolting, and since she does not apply enough makeup, 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.

Excerpted from The Unexpurgated Beaton, by Cecil Beaton, with an introduction by Hugo Vickers, to be published in November by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.; © 2002 by the literary executors of the late Sir Cecil Beaton. Introduction and editorial material © 2002 by Hugo Vickers.

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 jewelry, she wears a little paste brooch.) 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. 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.

MONA WILLIAMS BISMARCK, CAPRI, 1971

Beaton was the court photographer of this remarkable international socialite. A Kentucky horse trainer's daughter, she rose through two early marriages and then met and married the American multi-millionaire Harrison Williams. After his death she married Count Edward 'Eddy" Bismarck, grandson of Germany's Iron Chancellor. Considered the world's best-dressed woman, this famous beauty ruled over society from II Fortino, her mansion on Capri, built on the ruins of the emperor Tiberius's fortress. Years earlier, Beaton had written of her, "Her eyes, the color of seawater, remind one of wild birds in flight. Her hands have the deftness and control of a pianist or a surgeon. She has the restraint of a violin, no matter how 'brio' the melody." When Beaton visited her this time, she was 74.

The last year has not been a good time for Mona. For six months she watched Eddy die in the extremes of paralysis, and when all was over had a nervous breakdown. When I arrived at the Fortino today, I saw a group of elderly people sitting at lunch on the terrace and I had no idea which was Mona. On closer inspection I was horrified ... I did not expect to find that all traces of her beauty have vanished. She was one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. She is now suddenly a wreck. Her hair, once white and crisp and a foil to her aquamarine eyes, is now a little dyed frizz, and she has painted a grotesque mask on the remains of what was once such a noble-hewn face, the lips enlarged like a clown's, the eyebrows penciled with thick black greasepaint, the flesh down to the pale lashes coated with turquoise. When she later appeared in a bathing costume, it was terrible to see the shrunk, wizened, wrinkled, sagging skin. She was like a starving Pakistani.

"IN SPITE OF HER SUCCESS, HER AURA OF FRESHNESS, SHE IS A ROTTEN, INGRAINED VIPER, A DRIED-UP BOOT."

But worse, she seemed in such a terribly high-tension state, her hands trembling as she gestured or lit another cigarette. Oh, my heart broke for her. Mercifully she seemed to rise above the lost beauty and was completely unself-conscious of the fact that she made such ugly faces as she listened intently to some guest telling her of New York today or Russia before the revolution. She is still interested in what is happening in the world, though regretting the present trends. She finds nothing of beauty is made today, and I suppose it is as well that she does not assume a false interest.

The result is that her house is a period piece. The amount of money spent on it is fantastically exaggerated. Workmen for two years have been making walls and terraces so that she can have an alternative way down to the sea. A huge room has been made for an annex to the bathroom, changing rooms, and a new garden made just like the dozen others that already give her so much trouble, fighting incompetent gardeners and the hard, dry climate.

Yet this is the life she has chosen, and she is in most ways quite happy. She has no longer a desire to travel and go in for excitements. She is preparing for her death, and unless she puts on some flesh it may come before she realizes it. Poor Mona, she is a good, sweet person, and it made me aghast to watch her careering around her garden paths, an old Cipriani eccentric.

Beaton was mistaken. Mona Bismarck would take a fifth husband and live another 12 years.

THE ROTHSCHILDS' BALL, DECEMBER 1971

Marie-Helene de Rothschild, wife of Baron Guy de Rothschild, was famed for the fantastic balls she gave at the Chateau de Ferrieres, not far from Paris. The year 1971 was the centenary of the birth of Marcel Proust, and on December 2, MarieHelene gave the Bal Proust. Beaton attended the ball dressed as the 19th-century photographer Nadar, to photograph the guests for Vogue.

It meant a journey to and from Ferrieres, one and a half hours out of Paris, and it meant working very hard instead of spending time out, possibly trying to escape bores, in the crowded melee of the party. Ugly salons, untouched since the furnishings were first placed in their present positions.

The ball was a wonderful setting for a Proust affair, but few of the guests had read A la Recherche [du Temps Perdu], and certainly not Marie-Helene, who is probably the most spoiled woman in the whole world today. She has every resource to keep reality at bay, so rich herself, and her husband is the head of the Rothschild Bank. The evening comprised 350 to dinner, then 250 afterward for supper, singers, bands, unbelievable food, orchids everywhere, pale-mauve branches of orchids.

The guests were cafe society rather than gratin, and a lot of newspaper celebrities were treated with importance. Vogue wished particularly to have Eliz[abeth] Taylor, as they find that every issue carrying her picture is a sellout. I have always loathed the Burtons for their vulgarity, commonness, and crass bad taste, she combining the worst of U.S. and English taste, he [Richard Burton] as butch and coarse as only a Welshman can be. However, at the end of a long line of beauties being posed in attitudes of the time, the hostess, foul in white satin and hair down her shoulders, a superannuated Cinderella, brought down the chip-on-shouldered pair, who were both extremely embarrassed and self-conscious.

I treated [Taylor] with authority, told her not to powder her nose, to come in front of the camera with it shining. She wanted compliments. She got none. I asked her to hide a shoulder, lean forward, and went forward to this great, thick revolving mass of femininity in its rawest and put her in position. "Don't touch me like that!" she whined. For a split second I wondered if I shouldn't say, "Right, that's enough, that's all for tonight!" But I felt I must be professional to the last ounce of energy and continued, but not with anything but disgust and loathing at this monster. Her breasts, hanging and huge, were like those of a peasant woman, suckling her young in Peru. They were seen in their full shape, blotched and mauve, plum. Round her neck was a velvet ribbon with the biggest diamond in the world pinned on it. On her fat, coarse hands more of the biggest diamonds and emeralds, her head a ridiculous mass of diamond necklaces sewn together, a snood of blue and black pom-poms and black osprey aigrettes. Sausage curls— Alexandre, the hairdresser, had done his worst. And this was the woman who is the greatest "draw." In comparison, everyone else looked ladylike.

Princess Grace [of Monaco], very pretty and soft of expression, a big bull puppy now, but lovely clear complexion (unlike the hirsute Taylor). The Duchess of Windsor came in and behaved like a mad Goya. Several women were ravishing—Helen Rochas, in black velvet with three white roses on the corsage and a huge, simple loaf of bread-colored hair, was the best.

"MONA HAS PAINTED A GROTESQUE MASK ON THE REMAINS OF WHAT WAS ONCE SUCH A NOBLE-HEWN FACE."

KNIGHTED BY THE QUEEN, FEBRUARY 9, 1972

Well, it happened. The sword has been on each of my shoulders. My cystitis has cleared miraculously, and my fears of having to run to the Buckingham Palace toilets every few minutes proved unnecessary. I had for once tried on the clothes I was to wear (gray tailcoat and trousers, black silk hat), and although old they fitted.

Huge lights were everywhere, for it seems that the investiture was being televised as part of a program connected with the pageantry of the monarchy. Everything gleaming, shining; everything under control. What a great feeling that is! In the palace one feels there is no anxiety, flurry, havoc, or disaster. Everyone has such perfect manners, and this makes life so pleasant.

About 30 "knights" had assembled in the room of striped green silk where so often I had tried to find a new angle for my photographs. A most attractive, kind, good, gentle soldier gave us our instructions and demonstrated the way we should kneel on the [faldstool], but reassured us, "It's very simple. Don't get flustered. The Queen may say a few words to you, but when she shakes hands it is the signal for you to retreat six steps backwards, to bow, then make your exit."

We then went in alphabetical file to the coulisses of the Throne Room, and from my advantageous position of B could see the Queen at the end of a long enfilade walking toward us with a posse of courtiers behind her. She wore a pale, dusky egg-blue dress, short, low sensible shoes (champagne-colored), and neat-as-ever hair, inevitable pearls, and a prettier brooch than the usual knuckleduster, and loosely hanging [brooch] full of pearls. No other jewelry, no wristwatch, nothing to get in the way of her job, about which she immediately set up, unfolding the ribbons of various orders, stretching them with a tight jerk so they would not crinkle as she placed them over the recipient's shoulders, then flattening them well at the nape of the neck, all done very thoroughly. She would make an extremely good hospital nurse or nanny.

Then my turn. I cannot say I felt nervous. I felt quite confident that this was surely the least of my troubles, and I looked very piercingly at Her Majesty as she wielded the sword to my shoulders. But what was she saying? Was she saying anything? I have a theory that she thinks she knows me well enough not to have to say a few words. I did hear her, however, say, "This is a great pleasure!" Since she didn't have anything to impart to me I felt bold enough, after she had shaken my hand, to say that I never thought taking her photographs in the little girl's pink taffeta dress would lead to this honor. "It's a pleasure!" She seemed anxious to get rid of me as fast as possible.

Why do I feel this? I admire her so much in so many ways, never more than today, but I feel we just cannot communicate. The moment of triumph over, we then were marched left and right into the empty seats at the side of the Throne Room. Here I watched the Queen give honors to 250 people, 3 a minute, so real a personal word (except to me!) that will live always in the recipient's memory.

RUDOLF NUREYEV, LONDON, FEBRUARY 1972

The great ballet dancer, who had defected from the Soviet Union in 1961, was 33 when eaton photographed

How he has changed since the day of his great leap to freedom and stardom. He was then like a wild animal to deal with. One never knew how he would behave, and I tried to hide my terror and show my admiration, which amounted to infatuation. He came to lunch and slept in front of the fire as soon as he had eaten enough.

"I HAVE ALWAYS LOATHED THE BURTONS FOR THEIR VULGARITY, COMMONNESS, AND CRASS BAD TASTE,"

Now he is very sophisticated, but he has realized there are young dancers of great promise, and he behaves in a more disciplined manner. Yet when he turned up in swaggering kit to be photographed by me in many fashions (for Vogue) he showed his displeasure at certain garments which he either refused to (advertise) or else used for purposes which they were certainly not intended, a blouse sleeve used as a scarf, a pair of trousers as a rug for his cold feet. In appearance he has also changed. His eyes deeper, perhaps closer together, he has lost the quality of youth. But his body is much fitter, muscular and strong and graceful. He gave me a look of boredom at the way the Jewess Vogue editor "carried on." He rolled his eyes in disgust at some satin outfit costing many hundreds of pounds.

He did not feel the sitting was going well—I had not inspired him. For the purpose intended, I considered we were doing splendidly, though I was keeping the exciting shots for when we need show no clothes, only "him," and he was very pleased to pose half nude, though too cold for complete nude. But he said, "Perhaps we are both too old to do anything exciting like we used to."

He was enigmatic about most things to do with the dance, very reserved in his criticism, and when I asked him if, on my return from Egypt, I could not come and photograph him in his Richmond house, he did not want people to see where he lived. (The style in which he is able to live is very high! And the Soviets would obviously be furious.) It was not the occasion to ask him if he still had suggestions or even threats that he should return home. But I feel that, although he has never absorbed anything of Europe and is still completely Russian in every way, he is here for his life, and in some ways he is very disorientated and sad, though knowing full well that he would have none of the advantages he now enjoys even if he went back as a star of the Soviet ballet.

THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WINDSOR, MAY 28, 1972

I wake to hear [a friend] announcing the death of the Duke of Windsor. I felt callously indifferent. No pang of nostalgia. Certainly he had been a great figure in my adolescence, so full of charm and dash, so glamorous and such a good Prince of Wales. Then the sensational abdication and marriage. As a photographer, I came on to that scene in a big way, but throughout the years the Duke never showed any affection or interest in me, in fact rather presumptuously I felt he disliked me.

It was only at the last meeting, when I went to have a drink with Darby and Joan [at their house in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris], and all his men friends were dead, that he thawed toward me and talked about the "old times," the old tunes, and the old "stars" like Gertie Lawrence. He was cold in his friendships, cut them off overnight. Freda Dudley Ward [the Duke's former mistress], when asked what he was like recently, said, "That silly little man? I didn't know him!" Certainly he was silly. When [the historian James Pope-Hennessy] told him he was writing about Trollope, he roared with laughter and turned to Wallis, saying, "He's writing a book about a trollop!"

Well, it is good that she did not die before him. What will happen to her is not of interest. She made no friends. She will have less now. She should live at the Ritz, deaf and a bit gaga. It is sad because age is sad, but her life has not been a commendable one, and she is not worthy of much pity. But still I liked her and will try to be loyal, for she was always good to me. Another milestone passes.

SALVADOR DALI, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 1972

He spends two months every winter in the St. Regis hotel. I went to see him for a quarter of an hour. He is a great personality and really very delightful, clever and fun, and it was remarkable to see him converting the "French" suite into something of his own. It looked like a Dali decor.

"SHE WORE A DUSKY EGG-BLUE DRESS, SENIBLE SHOES. SHE WOULD MAKE A GOOD HOSPITAL MURSE OR NANNY."

I was surprised on the night of my arrival to find on my bed a circular disk of silver-paper-wrapped chocolate, placed on the pillow. Was this a joke of some friend? Next night, two chocolates, one on each pillow. I then realized that this was a petit soin invented by the hotel as a nicety for each guest.

On arriving at Dali's sitting room I saw hundreds of these chocolate disks placed in a row and running like a line of ants all over the flat surfaces of mantelpiece, commode, television, etc. He does not eat chocolates, as he has a weak fiver, and had preserved these to count the days he has spent here. (Other strangenesses included an invalid chair with an umbrella and a top hat over it, a huge black cabinet with dark glass paintings on it and a strange and inexplicable picture of a beer advertisement added.)

He showed me drawings he had made inspired by the shapes of newsprint (which he hurriedly explained were as good as Raphael). He was very in earnest about his tricks and jokes, and I loved him for being such an original individual, but today was terribly put off by his really appalling bad breath, which made it almost impossible to regard the things he wished to show at close quarters. On the way to the lift he regretted that with the modernization of the hotel they are getting rid of the wonderful Art Nouveau brass gates to the elevators. But he had made a deal with the hotel, and they had already discarded 2 from each floor, so that he was now able to buy 40 of these gates and was having them shipped to Cagnes for his swimming pool.

EASTER SUNDAY, NEW YORK, APRIL 22, 1973

Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt in a Queen Mary flowered toque used to be photographed at [the] church parade. Now, after the Easter Sunday service, Fifth Avenue is blocked off to become a jostling mass of humanity garbed in the most incredible fancy dress. Negroes are the most preponderant, but they are put in the shade by the drag queens who appear in crinolines with vast paper hats, or with sunshades and paradise feathers. Another sign of the deterioration of taste and standards. The few respectable people look like dodoes.

A VISIT TO SIR KENNETH AND JANE CLARK, SEPTEMBER 1973

The renowned late art critic and historian is best known to Americans for his 1969-70 public-television series, Civilization.

"Come down for lunch. I'll meet you at Folkestone. You must see where we live. Celly [Clark's daughter, Colette] always says the mot juste. [She] says I should be called Lord Clark of Suburbia."

I liked the idea of seeing Folkestone, and I was curious to see what sort of a house a man of such taste as K. would build for himself when he decided that Saltwood Castle [near Hythe] was too difficult to "run," had too many staircases for poor Jane to manage, and was altogether unsuitable for two elderly people to live in alone. In an effort to avoid death duties, the castle was given over with a considerable sum to the elder son [the late M.P. and historian Alan Clark], while the parents live in the grounds on a small plot that was formerly the apple orchard.

K. said he gave the architect a rotten time for he supplied the rough plan of a slightly straggling Japanese one-floor building and even told him the size of the bigger rooms: "I want this to be the size of my carpet." Admittedly the drawing room is rather beautiful, and it shows off to great advantage a fine Turner and Degas; the colors, all tobaccos and browns, are beautiful, but Celly was right. As we drove down a road with worse and worse villas each side, we turned off and bang in front this, another suburban bungalow, had a rather horrid picture window and red-brick low garden walls, while the windows on the far side looked out onto a backdrop of the silvercolored castle they have left.

K. and Jane say they have no regrets at leaving the castle, that they have no affection for it, yet they gaze at it all the time, though, in part through tact and a wish not to impose, they seldom visit the children and grandchildren.

I feel the move is a great mistake and it was difficult to enthuse.

But the visit was interesting, for after lunch (a bit of nonsense, talked about how brilliant the cook was—he was [the late English prima ballerina] Margot Fonteyn's chauffeur for 17 years—a dreary meal with the main course, veal, covered in sizzling chewinggummy cheese, and how we, [the late actress] Irene Worth and I, should go and thank him in the kitchen: "Don't tip him," said Jane, "but he'd be so pleased to be thanked") we went to the sitting room for coffee and cigars, and K., with the minimum of interruption from Jane, held forth in a most delightful way.

His mind is as clear as ever. (The preface he's writing to a book of [the sculptor Henry] Moore's drawings was on the floor in his study, a lesson as the most perfect calligraphy, with only about three slight corrections on the whole of the first, long foolscap page of script—I thought of my nine rough copies!) He never forgets a date, a name, a sum of money; his interests are worldly as well as artistic.

I warmed to K. He is the best company even if one has reservations about his point of view, his idea of the truth. He is a coldblooded fish, and one feels that he has a heart, otherwise how could he put up with Jane's continual drunkenness? Jane was sozzled by lunchtime and took a long while getting to the dining room, but she is one of the nicest drunks, for her goodness and benign attitude come to the surface. She must be a very Christian creature, for in her cups she becomes only sweeter.

PRINCESS ANNE'S WEDDING, NOVEMBER 1973

She was a bossy, unattractive, galumphing girl. When [she was] about 15, I photographed the family in a group, celebrating the birth of the latest addition [Prince Edward, bom in 1964], [and] she was not helpful. While waiting for the Queen to come in I suggested I might take some pictures of the newborn "if that was in order." "I don't know that it would be in order," opined the ugly girl.

At the end of the sitting, a very unsatisfactory one, I cornered the girl and said, "I know you hate it, but let me take you hating it in this direction, now hate it in that direction, go on. Hate it! Hate it!" The girl looked at me with a snarl. The pictures were revolting.

I don't know if Princess Anne had remembered this incident. Anyhow, it was Norman Parkinson who took the "breakaway" photographs which, with a good deal of help from Vogue, made her into a beauty. It was only natural that Parks should do the wedding pictures, and jolly well he did them.

"GOSH, THE SHOCK! PRINCESS MARGARET HAD BECOME A LITTLE POCKET-MONSTER QUEEN VICTORIA."

However, I was invited to the ball before the wedding, and [Patrick Plunket, deputy master of the household,] said it was the princess who put the tick against my name. And for this I am grateful, for that tick was the means whereby I had a very amusing evening.

I had high expectations of the dinner party before, given by the Queen Mother at Clarence House. Unfortunately, I was disappointed. The "glamour" had gone. It is a hideous house, and the mixture of furniture makes for a rather sordid ensemble. Some of the pictures are so bad (in the dining room particularly) that it gives the appearance of a pretentious hotel. The Queen Mother wore diamonds and a silver dress that had flying buttresses from the shoulders of pleated white tulle. I was even disappointed with the food and found it all too creamy. The Queen Mother enjoyed her glass of wine and held her head back each time she quaffed a glass.

Generally, when I go to the palace, it is to take a photograph sitting, and the burden of the job hangs like a Sword of Damocles. Tonight I felt free to enjoy myself, and I realized that at long last I have acquired a certain self-confidence. In my early years it was always a strain to go into a crowded room and come face-toface with people who I knew disapproved of me. Now to hell. I disapprove of a lot of them.

The ballroom had been invested, by Patrick [Plunket], with a huge, towering wedding cake made of white chrysanthemums, a good idea, as it appeared festive and broke up the wide sea of floor space. Suddenly face-to-face with the Queen. She was walking on her own, looking a bit like a lost child. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

Then on an exploration jog. I suddenly saw in a flash the heroine of the occasion. Princess Anne had become an Aubrey Beardsley beauty. Never was I more astonished. She has become very thin, her figure trim, her neck like a swan's, her nose long, her mouth and eyes beautifully made up, her hair high in great volutes of gold. Her dress a Renaissance-Empire style in yellow satin with slashed silver at sleeves and arms. She appeared graceful, calm, and beautiful. Over her shoulder a glimpse of the rather six-o'clock-shadowy chin of her fiance [Captain Mark Phillips], and his hair looked like black hay. But how can one really tell in one cinema flash?

"IN DALIS ROOM I SAW HUNDREDS OF CHOCOLATE DISKS RUNNING LIKE A LINE OF ANTS OVER THE MANTELPIECE."

Princess Grace [of Monaco], too, in a flash of raspberry color and a tiara (recently bought!) as she danced with a Spanish prince. The best jewels on the hideous Duchess of Wellington, her tiara like a Christmas cake of 18th-century diamonds.

[Prime Minister] Ted Heath arriving in a haze of good health and strength, in spite of the horrors of the world today, with a war in the Middle East affecting us all, and rationing of petrol in the offing. It was extraordinary how he has developed since becoming first minister. He has shown such courage and strength, and the manner (never being ingratiating, or, rather, too falsely so) has become easier, and may I not be damned for saying tonight he exuded a certain sex appeal. This is more than [former prime minister Harold] Macmillan did as he sat complaining that he knew no one anymore.

Princess Alice [granddaughter of Queen Victoria], over 90, going off into hoots of laughter when I asked her to be photographed; Duchess of Gloucester [aunt of the Queen] moving and twitching out of misery and nervousness; Prince Charles getting very red in the face and rather butch, with huge butch feet and legs. Rowdiness was part of the evening's fun, for a lot of the fiance's friends from the army and the hunting field gave the evening a touch of extra beefiness. The (red) pink hunting coats added to the looks, and of course it would be up to that snobbish Diana Herbert [daughter of the 16th Earl of Pembroke] to ask, "Who are all these people?" They were friendly and nice, and let in a breath of countrified air with their whoops and cries and slips on the slippery dance floor.

It was very difficult to catch sight of many of the people one was interested to see, and when, having walked for at least 10 miles, or so my feet seemed to say to me, I was bent on going home, I caught sight of Princess Margaret. Gosh, the shock! She had become a little pocket-monster Queen Victoria. The flesh is solid, and I don't think dieting can reduce a marble statue. The weighty body was encased in sequins, of turquoise and shrimp, her hair scraped back and a high tiara-crown (she bought it for her wedding) placed on top. But the hairdresser had foolishly given her a vast teapot handle of hair jutting out at the back. This triplecompacted chignon was a target for all passersby to hit first from one side, then another. The poor midgety brute was knocked like a top, sometimes almost into a complete circle.

As I talked, a waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and once more a biff sent the diminutive princess flying. Poor brute, I do feel sorry for her. She was not very nice in the days when she was so pretty and attractive. She snubbed and ignored friends. But my God she has been paid out! Her appearance has gone to pot. Her eyes seem to have lost their vigor, her complexion is now a dirty negligee pink satin. The sort of thing one sees in a disbanded dyer's shopwindow.

A nice night out for which I had to pay with a hangover the next day, for the five glasses of champagne I had drunk in self-defense had tightened the arteries, and the headache that overtook me lasted most of the following day.