When I entered the gates of Buckingham Palace for the first time, on my way to photograph the Queen (now the Queen Mother), I was determined that my photographs should give some hint of the incandescent complexion, the brilliant thrush-like eyes and radiant smile, which are such important contributions to the dazzling effect she creates in life. I wanted so much that these should be different from the formal, somewhat anonymous-looking photographs, or the rather hazardous candid camera shots that had, until then, been taken of the royal family.
To help me in my task I found I had every facility that the Palace could offer: the various State Apartments, with their groups of marble columns, ornate ceiling switch garlands of fruit and flowers, rows of crystal chandeliers illuminating the acres of Savonnerie carpet below, gave me wonderful opportunities for “conversation piece” backgrounds. Or, if I wished, my camera could utilise the felicitous glimpses of the long corridors with their tall windows hung with crimson silk, through which could be heard the click of bayonets and rasping voices during the changing of the guard. The gods were with me that day. Everything went well. There were no unforeseen difficulties. The sun even came out and poured down through the tall windows, giving extra sparkle to the gilded carving and the glitter of diamonds. Wherever we went in the Palace, Blue Drawing Room, Yellow Drawing Room, Circular Music Room, Throne Room, the scene was dominated by the enchanting almost fairy-story figure in her sparkles and spangles.
Afterwards, the Queen changed into a lacy day dress and picture hat. We walked across the lawns down to the lake, and talked of the dread of war hanging over us. The light began to fade, and the Queen, with all the wistful symbolism of a Chekhov character, said, “You watch, Mr Beaton: in a little while the sky will become rose colour. I often feel that Piccadilly is on fire at night.” Her words, alas, were oddly prophetic. Before the pictures that were taken that afternoon could be released for publication, the skies of London were red with the fires of war.
Since that initial sitting, I have been fortunate enough to be asked to take pictures both at Buckingham Palace and at Windsor Castle on many historic occasions. I have been honoured to photograph the present Queen at many stages of her adolescence. The first occasion was as a girl of 16, who wore a Kate Greenaway party dress of pink taffeta, and I tried to take pictures “in the manner of Gainsborough”. During the war I photographed her many times wearing schoolgirl blouses and skirts, Scottish tartan suits or with the insignia of the Grenadier Guards in her cap: once, at a time when the royal family, like everyone else, had to conform to clothes rationing, in one of her mother’s dresses altered to fit her.
During the bombing of London, we photographed the ground-floor living rooms, when many of the possessions had been taken into hiding. After the war, pictures were taken with her sister on the ornate “Ministers’” staircase of the Palace and against a snow scene painted by the late Rex Whistler. I was always impressed by, and grateful for, the exceptionally charming manners that the young Princesses had in relation to the job of being photographed. Unlike other children, royal and otherwise, by whom I have been victimised, they never showed signs of restlessness. Sometimes, while I was photographing her sister, Princess Margaret would stand on tiptoe to peer into the ground glass of the camera, and I think sometimes she pressed the trigger release for me.
When Princess Elizabeth attained her majority, I was bidden to Windsor Castle to perpetuate the occasion. The youthful princess I photographed that day has now become a Queen of remarkable qualities. Her unique legacy has made her a person apart, and the training to play the role of sovereign is today evident in the increasing authority of her personality.
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She is benevolent; her regard is unhurried and gentle, filled with human understanding and kindness; she is meek but not shy; assured and even proud – proud of her heritage. She has the strong and forthright virtues of Queen Victoria, and her reign may well become as famous.
Though I am not a child photographer, I was to take the first photographs of Prince Charles and, two years later, of his newborn sister. On this second occasion, after a number of pictures had been taken, Prince Charles, who had been watching the proceedings with great interest, kissed the baby on the cheek, and thus was achieved the best picture of the afternoon, an infant version of the Sleeping Beauty.
My most recent pictures of Princess Margaret were taken when she came of age. That day, we utilised the Chinese Drawing Room for our backgrounds, also a pretty, rose-coloured room whose walls were hung with Boucher tapestries representing the life of Don Quixote. She looked extremely small as she sat for my camera, while through the lens I could see her wonderful complexion, the ice-cream pink cheeks and intensely blue cat-like eyes. She was wearing an evening dress by Dior of which she was very proud. The embroidery on this skirt intrigued her for she said it contained pieces of potato peel. It was not easy for her to get French dresses, as she must of course encourage British dressmakers, but this was a rare exception.
It is not always entertaining to sit still and pose by the hour while inarticulate people run around one in circles, but long after the novelty has worn off and saturation point has been reached, the royal family are patient and obliging. Sometimes three or four changes of dress or uniform are made during the session and each change may mean a walk of a quarter of a mile down endless Palace corridors to a bedroom and back.
Many members of the royal family are extremely interested in the technique of photography, and, taking their own private snapshots, know a good deal about the various small cameras in use. Like all of us, they are often curious or even impatient to see the results of these long sessions. When the proofs of the pictures have been submitted, I am sometimes summoned to discuss the results. There are perhaps 30 or 40 prints laid out on the floor so that the housemaids have a shock in the mornings when they come to do the rooms. I have never suffered heartbreak that my favourites were not among the chosen, for, in general, the royal choice has coincided with mine.
In the old days, the court photographer brought in to document a family event, a christening, a wedding, a Coronation, was allowed 10 or 15 minutes to peer under his black velvet cloth at the figures as they stood stiffly in a group upside down in the ground glass of his camera. Today members of the royal family realise that, the demands from the public and the press becoming ever more voracious, being photographed is one of the most serious obligations to which they must submit at increasingly frequent intervals, and for sittings that can take a whole afternoon, or, in fact, a whole day.
Like all people who are good at their jobs, whatever their walk of life, members of our royal family are thoroughly professional in their attitude to the procedure of being photographed. The photographer is asked about the locations and clothes which will be most photogenic, anything within reason that he requires will be supplied with grace, and he is given every opportunity to do his best work.
Kings and Queens are not in the habit of visiting a photographer in his studio, and so he has set up his paraphernalia and lights in one of the rooms in the Palace. The sitting usually involves a number of people – the Palace electrician, my own electricians and assistants, the superintendent who produces a screen and some red velvet curtains, the gardener who manages to provide some carnations or gladioli splayed out in a cut glass vase. I bring a number of extra props in case they are needed, but I try to avoid delays and to make the sitting as informal and relaxing as possible. An equerry or lady-in-waiting appears to check that all is well, retires, and soon the page announces the imminent arrival of the sitter. At the far end of a long corridor a very small figure, possibly wearing a crinoline, is approaching. As the swish of her dress material becomes louder, I go towards the advancing figure and make my bow. My assistants are presented. Bows left and right, smiles, some remarks about the background I have set up or the chair chosen to play an important part in the sitting. Then the feverish exciting work begins.
