The three surviving entries from what appears to have been an earlier attempt to start keeping a regular journal, plus six letters to his wife Marion, written while Clifford was in Paris.
September – October, 1938, Paris
The Rue Girardon turns out of the Rue Lepic in Montmartre. On the corner still stands the Moulin de la Galette. If you walk down the Rue Grardon passing Avenue Jounot and Rue Norvins, which runs up to the top of the hill, you will come on your right, to a little restaurant. It lies well below the level of the street and you have to go down several stone steps to reach it. It is really a combination of restaurant, bar and grocer’s shop.
The regular clientele consists of a few painters, some good most of them bad, some models and an actress, Paula, whose reputation seems to depend largely on the fact that her sister is really famous at the Comédie-Française. Also, a singer or so from the cabarets on the Butte, workmen, and the negro doorman from the Moulin de la Galette. Among others is an English insurance agent always dressed just like an Englishman complete with raincoat, umbrella and gloves. He speaks excellent French, has lived in Paris for years and solemnly takes his Pernod standing at the bar: one before lunch and another in the evening before dinner.
I knew this place in 1935 and when I arrived in Paris on September 12th 1938 it was not long before I went there again. The patron and his wife remembered me and I soon felt that it was only a few hours and not years since I had eaten there last.
One night I was sitting with Goulding, an English painter*, and Garbell. a Russian painter. We were in the thick of an argument about the ‘crisis’. An argument started by Goulding who, for a painter, takes too much interest in politics. I found myself looking about the restaurant, having lost interest in the talk, and saw a man coming towards our table. He walked just a trifle unsteadily and carried a half full bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in the other. He leaned over the table and said, ‘Forgive me, but I so seldom hear English and your voice attracts me. May I sit at your table?’
* Possibly Frank D. Goulding (1917-1965) or Frank B. Goulding (1881-1949) – both obscure British painters of around about the right age to have been in Paris at that time. Editor
There are times, very rarely, when in the first few minutes of meeting someone you have never seen before that you realize, instinctively, that you have found someone you have been looking for. Charles Beadle, that was his name, impressed me in such a way. I liked his expression which was sensitive, nervous and experienced. He was clean shaven and had a shock of almost white hair. Dressed in an old coat, soiled velvet trousers and a shirt open at the neck, sandals and no socks. He might have been 50 or 60 but there was no mistaking the fact that he was alive – a rare quality in a world that has always struck me as being largely made up of people only come to temporary life of a kind when there is money to be made or when criticising their fellow creatures.
We talked like old friends meeting each other again after some years apart. Goulding and Garbell we practically forgot. Beadle wanted a line of Ernest Dowson‘s. It had slipped his memory and he wanted it for the book he was writing. Did I know it? It had slipped my memory too but no matter: we all got a little drunk. Beadle more so than the rest. 2 a.m. found us in the Place du Tertre where Beadle’s mistress finally discovered us.
We arranged to meet again the following day; I must admit that I half expected he would forget for he was drunker than I when we parted, but no, the following evening he kept our appointment. We met frequently in the evenings that followed. He was an ideal companion. He gave me his latest book which I read and loved. ‘Dark Refuge’ is magnificent.
During this visit to Paris, Clifford Hall stayed at the Hôtel Minerva, 86 Rue Lepic, from where he wrote the following letters to his wife, Marion, in England.
September 13, 1938
Dearest,
I hope you have had my card. It was the Versailles after all but the weather was very good. I have got an excellent room here It is right at the top, fourth floor, but it is very light which will be an advantage if the weather gets bad and I have to do some work indoors. At present it is very warm and fairly sunny although rather heavy.
I gave your love to the Chateils who regaled me en Porto as soon as I arrived. The Place du Tertre has not changed much except one corner which is ruined and the Chope du Tertre is spoiled. They have got a bunch of singers and a piano and put all the prices up. The prix fixe in the rue Lepic is now 7.25; the food is very good and it is still cheap on the exchange.
Montmartre is overrun with painters. Some very bad and some damned clever but too facile I think and with a not sensitive sense of colour. I started something this afternoon and got it drawn in and hope to have a slam at it tomorrow.
I do hope you will be able to come later on and I think, if you do not mind the stairs, that this room would do. It has a double bed and the room itself is only a little smaller than the one we used to have.
I will never forgive Bosworth* if he lets me down this time.
* This may well be a reference to the author Willan G. Bosworth, who collaborated with Frank Forster, the Equestrian Director of Bertram Mills’ Circus, who published a book on Clowns in 1937, with illustrations by Clifford Hall, entitled “Clowning Through”. Editor
Write to me soon and tell me how you are. I send you all my love precious one,
Clifford
September 17, 1938
Dearest one,
I was very glad to get your letter. Don’t worry about things. It’s not worth it and in any case this Hitler business will probably flop. I may seriously think about calling off my exhibition if things definitely do not improve by the end of this month but in the mean time I will continue to try and get as many good paintings together as I can. I have done two this week and if I can keep to that as an average I will not have done badly. Yesterday I finished one of the subject I always jibbed at in the past. From the Rue Norvins with the baker’s on the corner, the street running away uphill and the two towers of Sacre Couer standing up at the end. It is very attractive and was a brute to do but in the end I really enjoyed it.
The maid is no longer at the Minerva and little Chateil dons an apron and does every room himself from top to bottom each day. It looks as clean as ever.
Has my Caledonian Market come back yet? If not give it a few days and the phone Bourlet’s and ask them when it is coming. The Art Exhibition people wrote me some weeks back and asked if I would agree to sending it on to Leamington. I refused and they did not reply. If they have sent it there instead of returning it I must get after them.
The papers here are very interesting at the moment and I am keeping a few of the best to bring back with me.
Will you have a look at the back of the painting of Impasse Trainée and see if IOP stamped on the stretcher, I have two frames that size and I want to do at least to more to fit them.
I met Bella Ratface the other night. She is still doing watercolours and doesn’t seem to have improved a bit although a few of them are quite good.
Of course, if anything really serious should happen I will try to get back at once. It will be a hell of a scramble because there are many visitors here. More than ever it seems. I hope some of them clear off before long.
Write to me again soon.
I am hoping to get one of the gypsies to sit tomorrow. There is another English painter staying at the Minerva and he is borrowing a studio for the afternoon and we are going halves to pay her. They are always a blasted lot of trouble because they sit badly and whine for food, cigarettes and money all the time and yet always manage to make you feel they are completely independent and are a fool to give them anything at all. But one must put up with these things sometimes, particularly when they are as interesting to paint as this one should be.
I hope you get some news from Altrincham within a week or so.
Look after yourself most precious Mog.
Clifford
PS Glad you heard from Kenneth about the picture. It was too good for them though and they probably didn’t really like it and would sooner have had a ‘tame bird’. Unfortunately I could not catch tame birds even if I tried ever so hard.
September 22, 1938
My Dearest Mog,
I was very glad to get your letter and many thanks for sending on the others, also the ‘World’s Fair’.
I am working pretty well, a little temperamentally but cannot help that. I did a really good street this week and a still life that is a beauty. I am sure you will think so when you see it.
The lousy gypsies did not appear on Sunday but have promised to be here this afternoon. I hope they will appear this time as I am anxious to do them.
I have come across a very interesting man here, an English writer named Charles Beadle. He lent me one of his books and it is really fine. Needless to say not too successful financially. I am now reading one he has just had published here. The English publishers were scared of it and I don’t wonder although they are wrong. It might be useful to you some day to have an introduction to a publisher of English books in Paris. I have no doubt Beadle would do what he could as I know he has taken a great liking to me.
I am glad you are improving the book but for God’s sake do it your own way and to hell with what other people say or think. And that goes for me too.
About the Caledonian Market, I should phone the Art Exhibitions Bureau and ask them rather than go to Bourlets. If anything has gone wrong the Exhibition Bureau will know and Bourlets will not. If the Bureau have disregarded my letter and sent the picture to Leamington after all I will raise hell.
The war scare has settled, I think, for the time being. I can only regard it as yet one more dishonourable compromise. England and France equally to blame. To be charitable one can only assume that neither are strong enough to fight, or threaten to fight, Germany yet. It is certain they will have to eventually or do some plainer speaking than I imagine they have done up till now.
In the meantime the Czechs are sacrificed and Chamberlain is to be presented with a golden (solid) brooch inscribed by the grateful women of France (vide Paris-Soir). To be given a sum of money, recommended for the Nobel Peace Prize and made a member of Légion d’Honneur (regent class). And I imagined a simple painter could get it! I fear our day is almost done but we can be strong and happy if we continue to paint what we feel- somehow.
Tell Sultan that he is doing his best with the mine.
I am going to write to that bastard Bosworth a few days before the end of the month. It will do no harm the way I will put it and I must find out what they are doing. It is still warm here and personally I wish it would get colder. I do not like warm autumn days.
With all my love to you dearest. Write to me again soon,
Clifford
September 24, 1938
My precious one,
I hope you had my last letter and that you are well. Will you send me please any loose photos of pictures that I think you will find in the inside of the back cover of my black book of photos. I am pretty sure I put a number there, if not I expect they are in an envelope underneath the book. I think they will be all right in an envelope with a bit of cardboard.
I have got a most horrible attack of indigestion today. I must have eaten something last night that was off for the night itself was a very quiet one. When I take this to the post I will try a shot of Fernet-Branca That should fix me up.
I have done a 24×20 this week of two gypsies together and I think you will like it. They posed abominably but I managed. I am glad the coat has come back.
I won’t say anything about politics because they disgust me completely. I am glad you saw my mother. I hope she was cheerful.
With all my love,
Clifford
Here is a photograph of the painting of two gypsy girls the artist mentions in his letter to his wife dated: September 24, 1938.
While he complains of their unreliability in frankly very unflattering terms, he has, it seems, managed to create a compelling image of a couple of people who may well have been leading quite precarious and difficult lives. One can only hope they both managed to survive the war, as many Roma people in occupied France suffered persecution under the Vichy government and some were murdered by the Nazis.
September 26, 1938
Monday – midnight
My dearest,
I came back early intending to have a good sleep as I have been working hard today. But I do not feel sleepy. I am beginning to get rather worried about things, not particularly for myself but because I know that you must be worried too. If there is to be any trouble I must be with you. It is perfectly maddening not knowing what may happen. I could not have picked a worse time to come here. Would you like me to come back this week? Whilst the going is good so to speak. Personally, I still think it will blow over but I cannot help feeling that you are worrying. I know you must be. Think it over and write to me as soon as you can.
Yesterday, at lunch time outside a restaurant in the rue Lamarch dozens of men kept passing with bags and attaché cases. They had been called up. Presently, a poor undersized little clerk went by, luggage, a suitcase, almost as big as himself. A woman sitting next to me said: ‘Mon Dieu – he is going to save France!’ She saw the funny side of it but I think in spite of the jesting way in which it was said it meant a great deal more.
How sick I am of the Czechs, Hitler, Chamberlain and all the lot. I have not heard or come across a single Frenchman who wants war but they all seem determined to do their damnedest if they must. I had a most depressing letter from Bill. He says that it has been officially confirmed that they and France advised the Czechs to mobilize. This was denied in the French papers. Paris is not very gay since I have been here. There is quite a different feel about it.
I am just getting into my stride. The last four paintings I think are good. Of course, I cannot be sure until I see them in normal surroundings. There is a trying pink wallpaper in this room. Good to paint once with the yellow bedspread but never again. Do not bother with the Caledonian Market. It is just a waste of time at present. I was glad to hear what you wrote about your book. Artists and the few humans with brains must get above the commonplace. And what is happening now is commonplace and stupid in its way. But how exasperating it can be all the same!
I am glad you had the partition done. I will try to fix the room up properly when I return. And we must put some more pictures on the walls. We have plenty God knows – and look like keeping them for a while. If things arrange themselves with Hitler as the French say I must have a good talk with Leger about the show. I feel it will just be a waste of time now although I have good work.
Anyway, we will see about that later. If a letter comes from Altrincham open it and send it on. I wrote to Bosworth but he may write here – or Chelsea, I don’t know. Or will the crisis be a perfect excuse for them to get out of the whole business? Very likely.
I expected to hear from Harry before now. Has he had to put off his journey again?
There is so much I want to do here if only I had the time and I did want you to come but we must see. Write what you think. If things look really black on Saturday, which is I believe the ‘fatal day’ according to Hitler’s speech tonight, I will make arrangements to come back to you at once.
Keep on working, it is the best thing to do always. I painted like a demon today.
Remember I love you,
Clifford
September 28, 1938
My dearest,
I had the photos today and also your other letter which crossed the one I sent you last saying I was thinking of coming back. I have now decided to return on Friday morning this week, September 30th and I am tomorrow I am going to get a seat booked on the train to Dieppe as there may be a rush. I still think that the worst will not happen but I know what a rotten time you must have had the last few days and whether this proposed war fizzles out or not I feel I want to be with you.
I am longing to be with you and to love you. I suppose the train will arrive at Victoria at the usual time.
I think when you see what I have done that you will agree I have not wasted my time whilst I have been here. Let’s hope things will settle down and if I can get some money we will go away for a week together. Keep cheerful, I will be with you soon. I have enough money to settle the hotel and to get back without trouble so do not worry about that. Do not think that I mind about coming home. You are far, far, more important than Paris: there is lots of time for that. It can wait. It is you I want to see.
I will ring up Flannigan next week. I think everything will be a waste of time (exhibitions I mean) for a while but I do not mind sending a few things. Perhaps you could phone him and say I will get in touch next week.
All the streets here are darkened at night, you would hardly recognize the Boulevard de Clichy and there are very few people about. I did a good painting yesterday. It was a relief. I have not done one of the things I intended to do before I came but there you are – man proposes, Hitler disposes.
Fish-face must look really good in a gas mask. Tell her to wear it all the time, just in case. I am still sure that even if there is a war we will not be in it but the lousy part of it all is the future just like the past few years. All one’s best efforts ignored because Trade is bad and people are stupid.
I went to Medrano last night. It was half empty. I made a sketch of a Spanish dancer there – rather wild but it has something.
Until Friday, all my love,
Clifford
Ma Chambre’ by Clifford Hall, signed and dated: 1933, Paris top left.
This picture appears to depict Clifford’s wife, Marion, and it seems likely that it was also painted in the Hôtel Minerva. They were married in 1933, so this may well have been done during their honeymoon.
October 11, 1938
Back in London
Cocktail party at Oddeninos Brasserie, Regent Street, held to celebrate the opening of an exhibition of modern British Painting organized by John Flanagan*.
* John Flanagan (18?? – 1976) was an Irish painter, mainly of portraits. A friend of Augustus John and beloved by the singer Gracie Fields, he was a well-known artist in England at the time, having seven shows of his work at various London galleries between 1915 and 1939, including one exhibition at the Royal Academy. After the War he clearly fell into relative obscurity, like a number of other British/Irish painters of his generation. Editor
Sitting among the crowd I discovered Nina Hamnett seriously putting away one whiskey after another. She looked years older and seemed to have gone to pieces in real earnest at last. I told her I had met Beadle in Paris.
‘Oh yes?’ she said, ‘Lend me a penny. I know I shall not be able to walk to the Fitzroy after this. I must go by bus.’