Face to Face (1959–…): Season 1, Episode 3 - Dame Edith Sitwell - full transcript

Dame Edith, the world outside your own circle of friends
tends to think of you as being remote, eccentric,
forbidding and rather dangerous.

Now perhaps that's a false impression
and I want you to tell me face-to-face
what sort of person you really are.

Now first your appearance which everybody knows.

Why did you devise the very personal style
of clothes that you wear so well?

Well, because I can't wear fashionable clothes.

You see I'm a throwback to remote ancestors of mine

and I really would look so extraordinary
if I wore coats and skirts.

I would be followed for miles and people
would doubt the existence of the Almighty

if they saw me looking like that.

But is the style that you do wear
intended to suggest any particular period?

No, it comes naturally.



You see I'm descended
from the most queer and remote sources.

On one side my maternal grandmother
is descended straight from the Red Rose Plantagenets,

the Dukes of Beaufort, my grandmother was
the daughter of the Duke of Beaufort of her time,

are descended straight from the
Red Rose Plantagenets.

And on another side
I'm descended from an errand boy

who walked barefoot from Leeds to London
and built up a large fortune.

Well I'm extremely proud
of his having walked barefoot through Leeds.

I think it's magnificent.

Tell me about your life today.
Where do you live for instance?

I live with my eldest brother Osbert at Renishaw ...

- Which is your family home ...
- Which is my family home ...

And for part of the year I go with him
to his Italian home which is Castello di Montegufoni

which is an extremely romantic house.

And where is that in Italy?



That is outside Florence, it's 3/4 of an hour
from Florence, it's between Florence and Siena.

What are your own personal hobbies
and relaxations when you're not working?

Reading, listening to music and silence.

Do you like the country better than the town?

Oh yes.

What particulary
do you like about the country?

The quiet.

And not being bothered by silly questions.

That's a very successful answer.

Now do you go for long country walks?

I can't walk at all, you see,
I'm really rather lame now.

Did you enjoy that when you were younger?

No, I simply hated it.

- You've never liked exercise?
- Never.

Now what about music? Are there particular pieces of music
which give you special comfort when you're feeling overstrained?

I don't know comfort. But excitement.

You see, I've been in my life a very much
influenced by the works of Mr. Stravinsky.

And he, would you say he was
your favourite composer?

If you had to turn to music in a moment of strain,
would it be to Stravinsky?

No. I suppose that it would be to Bach
and Beethoven

and Mozart.

But certainly Mr. Stravinsky amongst them,
but more of excitement than for being soothed, you see.

Tell me a little now about the way
in which you work.

Do you for instance write
your poetry at regular hours

or do you have to sit
and wait for inspiration to come upon you?

Oh, I sit and wait for inspiration.

Yes, of course,
one is obliged to do that.

Do you work in fact
a certain number of hours every day

or does waiting for inspiration mean
that you often go for weeks without working?

No, it doesn't mean that
because it means that if I haven't an inspiration,

then I'm producing a poet's notebook,

quotations from various ...

what various poets, various painters and
various musicians have said about the arts

which will cast some reflection on poetry?

So that your work, you do do it regular hours,
even if not poetry? - Indeed, yes.

Do you type your own writings or dictate?
- No.

- I write them myself.
- And send them to be typed afterwards?
- Yes.

Do you revise your work many times?

Oh yes, when I write poetry, you see,
I mean I will sometimes have

almost a whole new book full of quite a short poem.

You're writing many many drafts?

Oh yes.

And sometimes I will put them aside.

And poetry I think has simply ... two parents

Sometimes the first parent will appear
and you have to wait for the second parent.

Dame Edith, are you a shy person?

Extremely.

Are you enjoying yourself now
or is it torture?

I like talking to you.

I don't always like talking to people
because I am shy of them.

If I think I'm boring them, you see,
it is dreadful for me.

You asked me just now,
you said that people's idea of me was

that I was eccentric and sad and ...
savage? No? - Forbidding.

Forbidding, I said, and dangerous.

Well, I don't think I'm forbidding excepting
when I absolutey refuse to be taught my job
by people who know nothing about it.

I have devoted my whole life to writing poetry
which is to me a form of religion.

And I'm not going to be taught by people
who don't know anything about it.

I think it's very impertinent.

I mean I don't teach plumbers how to plumb.

Just so. Well now, I will take you back to your childhood.

Is it true, it's always said
that you had an unhappy childhood?

Extremely unhappy.

Why? Because you were a girl?

Partly, and also because my father and mother, you see,
they married without know anything about life at all.

They were quite young, my mother was 17.

And poor thing, she didn't know anything about life.

She was just made to marry my father.

And they just didn't understand
the first thing about each other,

What sort of woman was she?

She was very beautiful.

Oh, she had the most terrible rages

which ...

oh well, I've forgiven her,
it was so long ago.

And what about your father?
He was a notable eccentric.
Now what you remember?

Oh well, wild eccentric.

When I was a child I was fond of him.

Only between the ages of 13 and 17,
because he was very kind to me.

But then he suddenly turned round on me,
I've never found out why.

Did you realize when you were a small child,
how eccentric he was?

I hardly saw him.

So that his eccentricities didn't embarras you?
- No.

I saw far too much of my mother.

Now what was it about her
that you didn't get on with?

Well, of course I was a changeling, you see.

She treated you as if you were?

Well, when I was born she would have liked
to have turned me into a doll.

And it was a great disappointment of course
to them that I was not a boy.

If I'd be Chinese I should have been exposed
on mountains with my feet bound.

Is it in fact true that both your parents
had disliked your appearance as a child?

My father - I don't think my mother bothered about it -
my father loathed it.

He liked people covered with pearls
and quite frankly rather common.

You see, he'd married a lady
and it hadn't gone very well.

So of course, he didn't want any more ladies about.

And is it true that he tried to change your appearance,
that he had recourse to plastic surgery?

Oh yes.

What happened about that? Tell me.

Oh well, it was very dreadful,
I don't want to talk about. - Alright.

Whre you as part of this unhappy childhood,
were you punished or were you teased?
What was the particular form of torture?

Well, I think they resorted to everything
which could possibly humiliate or hurt me.

Including for instance,
spoiling your brothers at your expense?

Well, my brothers would never allow
that to happen if they'd known, you see.

My brother Osbert is 5 years younger than me,
my brother Sacheverell is 10 younger than me.

And we're an absolutely devoted family,
I mean ...

you couldn't find a more devoted trio, you see.

Looking back now on your childhood,
who were the real friends that you had at Renishaw
in those days of extreme youth?

When I was a small child
my dear old nurse was one.

And then there was the fascinating Henry
who came of a long line of whalers

and who was first of all footman
and then than butler.

And he came when I was 2 years old,
he used to button up my shoes, you see, for me

when I was put into a perambulator.

And he would always in after life
come to me and say to me:

"Look out, Miss, you'd better get out of the back door
because Her Ladyship's coming for you."

Now you've brought out of all this
at least the love of the countryside.

How much of the ordinary life of the country
did you see, living at Renishaw in your childhood?

Did you love the animals, for instance?
- Well ...

until my brothers were born,
my only companions were birds.

Any particular pet birds, I mean,
or the wild birds in the woods?

Well, I loved the wild birds, but my pet birds,
there was a peacock,

you see, he and I loved each other very much.

Now I was four years old and he would always ...
he had a kind of feeling for time.

He would fly up to the ledge
outside my mother's bedroom

when I went to say good morning to her,

and when he saw me he would give a harsh shriek.

And at that moment I didn't dislike ugly voices
as I'm afraid I do now.

And he would then wait for me until I came out again
when he would give another scream,
fly down into the garden and wait for me.

We would then walk round and round the garden,
as you might say arm-in-arm

excepting he hadn't any arms,
I had to have my arm round his neck, I was 4 years old.

When I was asked why I loved him so,
I said:

"Because he's proud and has a crown and is beautiful."

And then my father got him a wife,
with his usual tactlessness

after which he never looked at me again.
My heart was broken.

That was your first disillusion?
- My first disillusion.

Was that before or after you ran away from home?

Oh, it was before I ran away from home.

I ran away from home when I was 5
and I couldn't put on my boots unfortunately.

And so I was captured at the end of the street

and brought back by a policeman

whom I hit as hard as I could.

But I was restored.

Now when and how did you eventually escape
from this closed family circle?

Well ...

when I was 25 I was left out on ticket-of-leave.

To do what?

Oh well,

I ... it wasn't possible for me to remain at home.

Were you given enough money
to make the ticket-of-leave a very rewarding one?

Oh no no.

You see, my father lived in the 13th century
where I mean a groat

was quite a lot you, know what I mean?

Yes.

Now have there been any other writers
in recent generations in your family?

Not in recent generations, no.

Does it strike you as odd that your one generation
should have produced three writers
of such distinction as you and your two brothers?

Well, we are descended collaterally
from several people.

We're descended, you know,
collaterally from the Herberts.

Yes.

And ...

Lord Herbert of Cherbury is a greatly underrated poet.

He's written some wonderful poetry
and there's one poem which is called ...

"Of white hair" or something like that,
I forget the name at the moment,

and it might have been written ...
it's a most wonderful poem.

It's about a girl with very fair hair
and it might have been written
by my brother Sachaverell.

Yes. Well, the question, of course,
that I really want to ask you is,
do you think that any of you

would have had the careers you have had
if it hadn't been for this extraordinary childhood?

Did it helped you in the long run?

I think it came partly from my father's
queer intellectuality and coldness,

and from my mother's wildfire passion
and impossible temper.

All your professional life I have the feeling
that you particularly, but your brothers as well,

have been campaigning, you've been crusading
either against something or for something.

Now what has the campaign been against?

- Always for something!
- Or what's it been for then?

For ...

any kind of new great work
which was coming along.

I mean we have after all found and helped
a good many great artists in various arts.

We really have, you know.

And against cruelty.

Against injustice. Against snobbery.

Well now, it's sometimes said about you
and I'm going to put it you that in doing all this
you've deliberately courted a great deal of publicity.

- Is that true or not?
- I loathe publicity.

When we were young we tried
to teach people their manners,
for instance with ...

my brother Osbert's first [novel]
he happens to have a most magnificent profile.

And some persons, critic, I ask you,

writing about the novel said that he had
the profile of a Hottentot.

We quoted that.

We also quoted, as far as I remember,
something was said about me,
that I was as ugly as modern poetry.

It seems to me to have nothing to do
with one's work at all.

And we quoted those things
not in order to get publicity,

but in order to teach people their manners,
we thought they might be ashamed. They weren't.

You haven't ever quite honourably and sensibly
sought to use publicity in order to further the causes
that you have at heart?

I don't think that I have.

Have you ever tried purposely to avoid it?

I have tried in every way
to avoid a personal publicity

since I was of a certain age.
I mean when I was young

I didn't care so much, you know what I mean,
people made fools of themselves,
all right they made fools of themselves.

Since I was very young I have avoided it.

You have succeeded in attracting a good deal of attention
one way and another even outside your works of poetry,
wouldn't you agree?

Yes, but that isn't my fault.

You were once described, I think by Raymond Mortimer,
but my memory may be at fault there,
you were described having been a dangerous Bolshevik,

terror of the colonels
and horror of the golf clubs

and causing panic among dog lovers everywhere.

Now in recent years I suspect that you've really have become
a member of the establishment and where you enjoy yourself ...

- Oh no! I've not.
- You've not? - No no no no no no.

In spite of having 4 honorary degrees
at various universities and being a dame? - Yes.

Well, how can you be a dame
and not be a member of the establishment?

Because it has nothing to do with it.

I mean I would always be the same kind of poet.

Do you enjoy the honours which have been showered on you?
- Yes.

Intensely.

You do this rather curious and unusual thing, I believe,
of listing separately the various degrees that you have.

You you write yourself down as
Dame Edith Sitwell D.Litt, D.Litt, D.Litt.

This is correct, isn't it? Naming each of the 3 degrees
which is unusual. Now why do you do that?

I did it at one moment because when I was having
impertinence from various stupid young men

I thought it might perhaps
put them in their places.

And did it in fact succeed in doing that or not?

Oh well, they always get put in their places
and then they come on again, you know,
one slaps them again and then they come on again.

Now you have taken, you referred to it yourself a moment ago,
a particular pleasure all through your life I think in spotting young talents
and helping young people on. - Yes.

Is that because you feel you didn't get the help
that you required yourself
when you were young? - No.

Is it just because you like the company
of young people particularly ...

It is because I have a passion of the Arts.

Yes but not necessarily
a passion for young people as well,

because you have been particularly diligent,
have you not, in seeking out and helping ...

Oh well, I always have a tenderness for the young.

But I don't encourage young people because they're young.

If somebody of 60 came along who was a genius

I should just as much wish to help him or her.

Do you in fact find it very easy
to make close personal friendships or do they come ...
- Yes.

When I die ...

I will be able to say that I think that I've had, that I've given
more devotion and had more devotion than most people I know.

Are most of your friends in the world of
Arts and Letters or are they ...

Of every kind,
of every kind.

In the world of the Arts,
poor people, rich people,

people who've been ill-treated,

people who've been happy,

every kind of people.

Have you ever, I hope I may ask this seriously,
contemplated marriage?

Well that, I think I can't answer.

No reason indeed why you should at all.

Do you consider looking at young people today,
at so many of whom you've helped,

that the standard of taste and behavior
among the young is lower than it used to be?

Is this story of the depravity
of The Beat Generation true?

Well you see, I think you said that I was a forbidding old lady.

Well, I'm very forbidding.
No young persons would ever dare
misbehave themselves in my presence.

And I can think of one very great example
of a very great poet who died some time ago.

I never once saw him behave in any way
that a great man shouldn't behave.

Would you tell me who that was,
I can guess and I think it would be nice ...

- Dylan Thomas.
- Dylan Thomas.

Who was indeed one of the people you very much helped along.
- Yes.

And he behaved always impeccably in my presence.

Now I want to change the subject
and ask you about something quite different,

because there was one episode in your career
which has puzzled a lot of people.

Why did you decide some years ago to go to Hollywood
and work in the Hollywood machine?

Well, I was not working in poetry at the moment
and I needed to earn money.

Did Hollywood either succeed in or even seek
to lower your standards?

Oh, not for a moment.

How did you ward them off?
Because they have after all corrupted a great many.

I didn't have to.

I only saw people whose behavior was impeccable,

who were highly educated
and the sort of people I would know in England.

Is the story of your affection for, or whatever it was,
Marilyn Monroe just a press story or is it true?
Did it really happen?

Well, I tell you what happened exactly.

You see, as she was brought to see me
in Hollywood

and I thought her a very nice girl.

I thought that she had been disgracefully treated.

Most unchivalrously treated.

If people have never been poor
perhaps they don't know
what it is like to be hungry.

That girl allowed a calendar to be made of her,
you see.

Well there have been nude ...
models ... models before now.

It means nothing against
a person's moral character at all.

This poor girl was absolutely persecuted by people.

I mean she has or had an unfortunate attraction
for an extremely unpleasant kind of man

whom she avoided assiduously.

I have seen her do that
when she was brought to see me.

I really did, you see,
I mean she behaved like a lady.

And has she shown pleasure and gratitude if you like,
for the kindness which you showed to her?

Well indeed, yes, I mean when she and her husband
for whom I have a very great admiration,

came to London, they were asked
whom they wanted to see.

And I was one of the first people
whom they wanted to see.

And they came,
but of course we couldn't talk because

every kind of person was just hanging about outside
and interfering all the rest of it, you know,
going and telling lies afterwards.

But I saw them again alone in New York

and we had a most delightful talk.

And I hope that one day I shall see them alone again.

Now you do visit America pretty regularly nowadays
and I want to ask you,

do you find that the American way of life
is a good one for an artist?

- Oh yes.
- Why?

Well, unless one is rushing about screaming,

which I don't know anybody who does
rush about screaming ...

You see, it is ...

There are certain comforts which prevent you
from being harrassed the whole time.

That I think is a very good thing.

You see, such as you ... I mean everybody
excepting the very very poor
have ice boxes and

have motors and ...

Yes, but with all that mechanization
and all the sort of speed which accompanies it,

did you not find that the contemplation
which is necessary for your work, rather disappears?

No, I've always been able to work perfectly.

And did the Americans treat you with the respect
or do they treat artists with the respect that is their due?

Oh, my goodness me, yes.

They're perfectly wonderful audiences.

They're so kind.
I mean, for instance

after we had had a performance,
somehow other our photographs were put in the paper.

We were not seeking publicity,
but I mean they were put in.

And a week afterwards, some young people saw my eldest brother me
standing on a street corner waiting for a taxi,
and they ran and got a taxi for us.

Are you as well known in New York and San Francisco
as you are in London? Do people recognize you? - At least.

Do you ever want to be unrecognized
as you go about your life?

I want frankly not for people
to come up and bother me
about every kind of trivial thing.

Has it ever occurred to you,
I'm sorry to come back to something,

but has it ever occurred to that if you did just once
dress like Garbo in an old Macintosh and a slouch hat,
you would go unrecognized?

Ah, no.

I shouldn't.

You'd rather not pay that price for it?

I should hate to do it.
I don't see why I should
because people are impertinent.

Is it your experience that on the whole
people are impertinent with the public figures
whom they know well and love?

Not everybody. Some are most considerate.
But some extremely impertinent.

I mean anybody thinks that they have a perfect right
to come up and bother me about their own ...

- problems.
- Problems, yes.

Somebody did once write about you, Dame Edith,

Not what she writes
but what she is,
exerts the real fascination.

And that's what I've been
trying to find out tonight.

Now before I give you the last word

I want you to listen to 3 most lovely lines
which I quote from one of your own poems:

The great sins and fires break out of me

like the terrible leaves from the bough in the violent spring.

I am a walking fire, I am all leaves.

Dame Edith, what is that great power,
what is the living thing

which all your life has been trying to break out of you?

The great fire I suppose
is a humble but unworthy love of God.

And certainly a great love of humanity.

And to be an artist is a terribly painful thing.

I mean the great leaves break out to me, you see,
one has a perpetual resurrection in one's life,

as the art returns to one after long deafness.

You see?

And of course the fire's always fighting with sins.

And ...

well, there one is ...

Engl. subs: serdar202@KG2019