A Meeting by the River

by Christopher Isherwood

  And now you’ll soon be sitting down to supper—thinking about me, I trust. Are you alone? I won’t be selfish and hope you are. I hope you have agreeable company—well, no, not too agreeable! Anyhow, I most definitely don’t want you to be feeling as utterly alone as I am now. This plane is droning on and on across the endless ocean. We are chasing the sun, which is big and dull red, its lower rim seems to have got stuck fast in a cold blue cloudbank along the horizon. It won’t set for hours yet, because our speed has slowed it down almost to a stop.

  The Japanese stewardesses are so cute, half shy and half amused. They bring us drinks, giggling, and they bow to us submissively as if we were mighty he-lords. These seats are too narrow, designed for delicate Asian buttocks. I can feel my neighbour’s elbow sticking into me. Wish it was yours!

  That coverless and obviously much thumbed-through paperback novel you suddenly pulled out of your pocket and gave me at the airport—Wow (as you would say)!! You know, you might at least have warned me what it was about! I suppose I should have guessed, from your wicked grin. Anyhow, I didn’t. After we’d taken off, I opened it in all innocence at the first chapter and almost immediately found myself involved in that sizzling love scene between the character called Lance and that younger boy. Did you think that a hard-boiled publisher couldn’t be shocked? I began blushing, yes actually! And then I suspected that my neighbour was reading it too, out of the corner of his eye. So I put the book away for private consumption later—behind a locked door!

  He’s probably reading what I’m writing to you now. But I don’t care a damn about that. He doesn’t know you, and people who don’t know you don’t seem quite human to me, at the moment, they belong to another race entirely. In Asia alone there are several billion of them. What a depressing thought!

  Oh Tommy, what can I say to you? There’s too much to say. And I’m thinking about you so hard, all words seem meaningless. That afternoon down on the reef at Tunnel Cove, with the air full of spray and the shock of the waves making the rock tremble—no, if I talk about that I shall break the magic. It was magic, wasn’t it, every time we were together, from the first day we met?

  When I’m with you I’m a new, quite different person. That’s why you must never get upset, Tommy—you did, once or twice, you know—about any of the other people and relationships in my life. They simply cannot touch us, they couldn’t if they tried to, because what you and I have together belongs only to us. It doesn’t depend on anything else. It exists on its own.

  I have never in my life met anyone like you. I only wish it could have happened sooner. I wish—I wish—oh hell! Forgive this drooling.

  When shall I see you again? I have all sorts of schemes, as I hinted to you that evening I got so drunk up at your place. I know I oughtn’t to have mentioned them until I was sure—in my profession one should have learned the danger of making promises! But I just couldn’t keep them to myself. I suppose that was because I was so desperately anxious to hook you somehow! I mean, I’m not naïve enough to imagine that anyone can be satisfied indefinitely by memories, especially if he’s young and full of life, like you. I did my best to help you build up a reserve to keep going on. That was why I didn’t leave until the last possible moment. But you must have something to look forward to, as well. Otherwise, I’d have no right to ask you to remember me at all. I ought not to be writing to you even.

  But now I’ve been thinking things over carefully—amazing how much thinking you can do on a plane; it’s one of the few things they’re good for—and I really don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t get you a job on our film, as some kind of an assistant. I’m sure the work wouldn’t be any problem for you, you’re so quick at picking things up, and I know you’d get along wonderfully with everybody. It would probably be wiser if you weren’t attached to me officially—I don’t want to get you talked about, and anyhow I should hate to be in the position of having to boss you around! But I’m certain our director could use you in some capacity. I’ll talk to him about this as soon as I see him in Singapore. He’s an old friend of mine, and I can rely on him to be discreet and understanding.

  That reminds me, be sure to write to me at the hotel in Singapore. (Address above, in case you’ve lost it.) Of course I would have loved to hear from you while I’m in India, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. They are probably pretty vague about handling letters at this Monastery. It would be awful if one of yours went astray!

  Tom, you remember that evening we drove up into the hills and sat looking out over the lights of the city, and you told me you loved me and asked me if I loved you? We never spoke of it again, but I know you were terribly hurt because I wouldn’t say it. I couldn’t say it, Tommy. I wanted to so much, but I was afraid to. It’s such a tremendous word and yet most people throw it around so lightly. I happen to feel differently. I’m almost superstitious about it. But you can be sure of one thing—when the right moment comes to say it, I won’t merely say it, I’ll shout it!

  Meanwhile, there’s something I am going to say to you. I know I’m taking a risk, saying it. Perhaps it will make you angry, but I don’t really believe it will, because you’re so wonderful and generous and you have so much intuitive understanding of me. Well, anyway, here goes—

  Tom, I need your love, terribly. And I’m asking you now to go on loving me, even though I haven’t told you I love you or made any promises. Is that outrageous of me? Yes, of course it is. But still I’m asking it, and I don’t apologize. I have complete faith in your love, that’s my only excuse.

  Patrick (not Paddy, he’s for the others).

  Tomorrow he’ll be here.

  Went into the Temple extra early, I must have been there three hours at least. In the state I was in, it was impossible to meditate, so I just kept myself mechanically telling my beads. I know that no effort of this kind is ever fruitless, or so they teach you, but this morning it didn’t seem to help at all. I tried to offer the whole situation up and say, Your will, not mine. But all the filth out of the past kept backing up on me, like a choked sewer, it was foul beyond words. I felt I could remember every single grudge I’ve ever harboured against Patrick (I was probably inventing a lot) and I still hated him for all of them. There was such a storm going on inside my head it seemed strange the other people in the Temple couldn’t hear it.

  So then I went outside and sat for a while on Swami’s seat. There was no one about. In any case, they never speak to me nowadays if they see me there. I wonder if Mahanta Maharaj has said anything to them? Or do they just know? The subtlety of their understanding about matters like this still keeps astonishing me.

  As always, it helped me, sitting there. I feel calmer now, at least for the moment. But that may be only because I’m so tired.

  In the midst of this storm, and all the storms I’ve been through, I can only try to hold on to three things:

  I have known a man who said he knew that God exists.

  After living with him for five years and watching him closely, watching the way he lived, I’m able to say that I believe (nearly all of the time) that he really did know. I also believe in the possibility of my having the kind of experience which gave him that knowledge.

  That man chose me for his disciple. I may be poisoned with hatred and half mad, but nevertheless I’m his disciple. And he can never desert me. I have got to believe this, and know that he is with me always, even if I don’t feel his presence. As long as he’s with me, what can I possibly fear?

  I’ve become more and more convinced during these last months—now it’s practically a certainty—that when Swami left his body it was an intentional act. What’s more, he wanted me to know it was intentional, in order to strengthen my faith, so he left me various clues, as it were, to convince me in retrospect.

  Let me write down the reasons why I believe this:

  Swami chose a day on which his health was actually a bit better. His death on that day from ‘natural causes’ was most unlikely. The doctor confirmed
this.

  That morning, before I left for work, he seemed more than usually cheerful, playful almost. When I said to him, ‘I’ll be seeing you at six o’clock, then?’ (I made it into a sort of question, I don’t know why) he smiled and answered, ‘Do you expect me to run away?’ And then he added, without becoming at all solemn but in a tone which made it all the more significant, later, ‘Don’t you know the Guru can never run away from his disciple, not even if he wants to, not in this life, not in any other!’ When he said this, I was kneeling beside his bed straightening the bedclothes, and he put his hand on my head, and patted it. He didn’t do this very often. I always felt it was a special kind of blessing, because I hadn’t asked for it as you do when you prostrate. And now I believe that that also was something done for me to remember afterwards.

  Also, when I came home that evening and found him, he was lying in front of the shrine. He had his chadar on over his dressing-gown, and his rosary was looped round his hand. That can only mean that he had deliberately got out of bed and prepared himself to meditate, and that he left the body while in meditation. He didn’t just happen to fall dead on that particular spot by accident.

  I carried him back to the bed before I called the doctor. I didn’t see why anyone else should know. Since I’ve been out here, I’ve sometimes thought it was terribly selfish of me, not to have told the rest of our group. It would have helped them, too. I will write and tell them, one day. I suppose I’m waiting until I’m quite sure about all this in my own mind.

  Later. The storm is on again, and now I don’t feel sure of anything. I feel I don’t know what I believe, or why I’m here in this Monastery. Perhaps I have gone mad. Perhaps Swami was somehow deluding himself. Perhaps he is quite dead and doesn’t exist anywhere. Perhaps all those millions of people are right, who say that there’s no God and that life has no meaning. Why should they be the insane ones? They are the majority.

  Will things get better when Patrick arrives here? I don’t know that either. It’s all very well to say that what I’m struggling with isn’t Patrick himself, but a monster I’ve raised up. That may well be true—yes, of course it is true. But what’s the use of admitting that, if I still can’t make the monster disappear?

  And if I can’t, how can I dare to take sannyas?

  3

  Dearest Mother,

  I sent you a cable from the airport when I arrived here last night. I hope you’ll have got it by now.

  We didn’t get in until shortly before midnight, three hours late, because we were delayed at Kowloon waiting for a plane from Jakarta which then proceeded to load us full of Indonesians, all very small and silent and slightly sinister. There seemed to be dozens and dozens of them, and I had an uneasy feeling that they were being stowed away in the baggage compartment and made to sit on the floor between the seats, and that we should never be able to take off. We were, however, so I suppose they can’t have weighed very much! When we finally reached Calcutta, I found to my surprise and delight that Olly was still out at the airport, patiently waiting for me.

  Mother, I told you not to worry about him. Now that I can say this with absolute authority, I’ll repeat it—Oliver is well, and I mean well in every way, mentally and physically. I know you would agree with me, if you could see him. He has lost a little weight, yes, but not because of malnutrition or anemia. He has toughened—not that he wasn’t a lot tougher than most of us, always—and now he looks lean but very fit. He assures me, and particularly asks me to assure you, that he’s getting enough to eat. In accordance with his beliefs he follows a vegetarian diet, but vegetables are plentiful here and, besides, he is supplementing them with vitamins! I know you will be surprised as well as relieved to hear this, it doesn’t sound like our Oliver, does it? You remember how, when we were boys, he seemed hardly to know if he had eaten or not. However, the senior monks of this Monastery seem to be looking after him quite anxiously. (Olly was obviously embarrassed when he told me this!) They have an exaggerated idea of the frailty of an English constitution in the Indian climate and are continually warning him not to overdo things and to be most careful what he eats and drinks. Apparently the fact that he has lived in Africa and survived the hardships of the equatorial zone doesn’t impress them a bit. They claim superior toxic powers for their own land—a funny kind of patriotism!

  Is Oliver happy? Yes, Mother, I sincerely believe that he is. Of course, it’s a kind of happiness which could never be entirely understood by you or me. I know—although I’m sure you haven’t let him guess it by so much as the faintest hint—that you’ve grieved because Olly has never found himself a partner in life and never given you grandchildren. (Penny and I have done our best to fill that gap, haven’t we?) If one has once known everything that a happy marriage and a home can be, then it’s hard, I admit, not to feel that happiness is marriage and that those who haven’t experienced it are simply unlucky. But we mustn’t let ourselves be too smug about this, must we? All through history one can find plenty of examples of the other way of life—I don’t mean only in the sphere of religion, take Lawrence of Arabia or van Gogh for example—these people who apparently need and prefer to go it alone. I suppose Olly is like that, and perhaps it’s what is meant by saying that someone is in God’s hands. That phrase always sounds terribly chilly and bleak to me, but it’s certainly something one can respect.

  It’s a descent from the sublime to the prosaic to talk about my own health and welfare, but I know that you in your dear love worry about me too, so I must tell you that I’m far more comfortable here than I ever expected to be, in an extremely clean guesthouse which is run by the Monastery and stands just outside its walls. I shall have all my meals prepared for me by a special cook who is a Christian and has been trained to produce authentic British food! In fact, I’m probably better off than I should be in some run-to-seed luxury hotel.

  The influence of the Empire is still apparent in this country. The immigration and customs officials at the airport all have distinctly English accents, rather pedantic and Oxonian, despite their sing-song way of talking English. They seemed absolutely without hostility and couldn’t have been pleasanter. Still, when one of them stamped my passport and handed it back to me saying ‘Welcome to India!’ I thought I detected just the smallest hint of proprietorship. It must be a satisfaction, after all that has happened here, to be able to welcome the British as mere guests in one’s own house!

  Of course the friendliness may have been largely due to Oliver’s presence. One of them seemed to be on particularly friendly terms with him, and made some remark, evidently a joke, in the native language—to which Oliver answered with apparent fluency. Later I asked him, ‘Was that Bengali you were talking?’ Olly nodded and grinned—that grin of his hasn’t changed since we were boys, and it’s all the more charming for being somewhat rare. ‘I was practising on him while I was waiting for the plane,’ he said, ‘I wanted to impress you.’ So then I asked him what he’d said to the official and he told me it was ‘Yes, I quite agree, that is very true.’ So I asked what it was that the official had said to him first, and he roared with laughter and answered, ‘I don’t know, I didn’t understand a word!’

  He was wearing a shirt, pullover, flannel trousers and sandals—the sandals were the only Indian part of his costume, in fact. I commented on this, saying that I’d expected him to be ‘dressed differently’. As soon as I’d made that remark I was afraid I’d dropped an awful brick, because it sounded as if I’d expected to find him ‘gone native’. What I’d actually meant, of course, was that I’d expected he’d be wearing some sort of monastic habit. But he wasn’t a bit offended. ‘Well I did think of coming out here without changing,’ he told me, ‘but then I pictured you arriving and this weird-looking oriental running to greet you, and it’s your long-lost brother. I was afraid that might be a bit much for you to swallow, right at the start, but I see now I was wrong, you’d have taken it all in your your stride, wouldn’t you?’ I could have hugged him for
saying that! I did take hold of his arm and give it a squeeze, but then I dropped it again like a hot potato because I had a sudden qualm that this might be considered as lacking in respect for his cloth or a breach of some taboo. I even muttered ‘Sorry!’ which was idiotic of me, I realize. But Olly just laughed and said, ‘That’s all right, I haven’t become an Untouchable, you know!’ Wasn’t that marvellous of him? It relieved me more than I can tell you, because it proved that he hasn’t really changed, inside. He hasn’t lost his sense of humour. And as long as he keeps that, India can never come between him and us.

  Oliver looked in on me this morning, first thing, to make sure that I had everything I needed, and he sat and talked to me while I had my breakfast. Here in the Monastery he naturally wears the light cotton Hindu clothing, like all the other monks. (I’ve already got some photos of him in this, and I plan to illustrate this whole visit lavishly with my camera, so that you’ll be able to have a good idea of how the place looks.) Monks who have taken only their first vows wear white, swamis wear an ochre yellow which is called gerua. (You see, I’m beginning to learn the ropes!) Oliver assures me that Hindu clothes are much more comfortable, more hygienic and better suited to the climate than our European dress. I can easily believe this. Not that I feel any discomfort dressed as I am, because the weather at this time of year is only pleasantly warm.

  This afternoon, Olly will come back and conduct me around the Monastery buildings and grounds. It is so dear of him to go to all this trouble, I know he is sparing me as much of his precious time as he possibly can. Also, later today, I am to be presented to some of the senior swamis, including the abbot or head of the Monastery, whose proper title is The Mahanta. (Doesn’t that sound awe-inspiring?) As you may imagine, I have a bad case of stage-fright at the prospect of these encounters. For poor dear Oliver’s sake, I do hope I shan’t commit any faux pas!