My Guru and His Disciple

by Christopher Isherwood

  I doubt if there is anybody in the whole world who, from my point of view, is luckier than I am right at this moment.

  September 9. Vernon started to grow a beard. Swami told him to shave it off. “This is not Trabuco,” he said.

  Swami told me that when he joined the monastery all his friends were amazed: “They thought I was just a dandy-boy. I parted my hair and wore rings and a gold chain. I liked to play practical jokes. I was known as the best-dressed boy in Calcutta.”

  He said that when I go up to Montecito he wants me to make a great deal of japam. “When once you are established in that, you can go anywhere. It is all the same.”

  September 10. Vernon left for Montecito today. In rather a dither, because lots of people have gone up there—Swami habitually invites twice as many people as there are beds. Vernon’s first night won’t be spent in the garden house, or, if it is, he won’t be sleeping alone there. If he can’t have any privacy, he’s ready to leave.

  I’ve got to explain this to Swami and I can, because I understand just how Vernon feels—I’ve been through it myself. Vernon was also upset because of a visit to his friends in Santa Monica, who told him that mysticism isn’t right for him. This makes me furious. We’ll have enough trouble without outside interference.

  September 18. For a long time now, a fight has been going on between Swami and the draft board, over Asit—Selective Service wanting to put him in the Army, Swami saying they shan’t—because Asit is not only a visitor in this country but a member of a subject race which isn’t eligible for U.S. citizenship (though, of course, Asit could become a citizen if he wants to, as soon as he’s been inducted and has spent a short period of time as a soldier). An additional argument is that the British themselves don’t conscript Indians. Swami has taken the matter up with the American Civil Liberties people and there will be a court case. But, while that is pending, they have advised Swami and Asit not to resist induction.

  Finally, today, Asit was inducted. Before he left for the induction center, this hundred-percent Westernized future movie director became a traditional Hindu and prostrated before Swami on the temple steps, making the gesture of taking the dust from Swami’s feet and touching it to his own forehead. (This was only pantomime, of course, since Swami’s shoes were flashing with polish.) Meanwhile, Swami blessed him. It was startlingly beautiful.

  (The tone of the above entry suggests that this was the first time I had personally witnessed such a salutation—it is called a pranam. In those days, I don’t think that any of us ever prostrated before Swami. Sister might perhaps have done so while the two of them were together at the Belur Math, where this would have been normal behavior. Many years were to pass before pranams became usual at the Center.)

  * * *

  Partly, no doubt, because of Asit’s case, partly because of the inevitable wartime suspicions which attach themselves to aliens, we found ourselves under official observation. When one of us would ask another if any new students had shown up at a lecture, it became an in-joke to answer: “Oh no, it was very quiet—just the family and the F.B.I.”

  And then Swami got an overt visit from two self-identified agents, neatly dressed and smiling. Swami wasn’t in the least intimidated; indeed, he seems to have enjoyed himself. I wasn’t present. According to him, their dialogue went more or less as follows:

  Swami: Gentlemen, what can I do for you?

  Agent: Swami, we’ve been given to understand that you speak against England and the British rule in India.

  Swami: Yes, I do. I want the British kicked out of India.

  Agent (laughing): Well, we kicked them out of this country.

  Swami: Then why do you question me?

  Agent (a shade less friendly): Could it be, Swami, that you are getting money from Germany, or Japan perhaps, to make this propaganda?

  Swami: Do you think they are fools, that they would give me money for something I do freely?

  Agent: Could it be, then, that you are collecting money for your countrymen here to go back home and fight the British?

  Swami: Listen! If I knew any Hindu boy who had to be paid before he would fight the British, I’d throw him out of this house!

  Thus the interview ended in laughter and reassuring handshakes. The agents didn’t visit us again, and our lectures no longer seemed to be monitored—or, if they still were, it wasn’t by such obvious flatfoots as before. Later some highly respectable members of Swami’s congregation got in touch with the F.B.I. and vouched for his good character.

  September 20. Swami and I visited a Mr. Williams who is responsible for deciding cases of objection to military service on religious grounds. We were trying to get a 4-D classification for Webster.

  Mr. Williams received us in a very bare office downtown; we had to sit on piles of fishing tackle. Taking it in turns, and sometimes contradicting each other, we made an extremely garbled statement of the aims of Vedanta philosophy. Ordinarily, I would never dream of contradicting Swami in the presence of strangers, but I was convinced that I knew better than he did what words to use in talking to a novice like Mr. Williams—and, after all, Webster’s future as a monk was at stake.

  Mr. Williams sat silent, apparently not understanding a word. But when we’d finished, he said, smiling, “What you’ve just told me isn’t as unfamiliar to me as you may think, gentlemen,” and he produced from his desk a volume of Ramakrishna’s sayings.

  (Webster got his 4-D classification, but not until the war was just about to end.)

  September 22. Asit has shown up already, delighted with Fort MacArthur and his uniform. The girls pamper their little warrior and goggle at his stories. He won’t be sent any place else until after the court hearing, and the lawyer is sure he’ll win it and be let out.

  (Asit did win his case. He was discharged from the Army on January 3, 1945. He left quite unwillingly, because he had enjoyed himself so much. His officers, not to mention his many buddies among the enlisted men, appear to have been unanimously on his side and to have taken a sporting interest in the result. The judge himself was Irish and frankly anti-British in his attitude. While Asit was still in the Army, he was invited to give a lecture on the Indian political situation; this was attended by several hundred men, and received with enthusiasm.)

  Twelve

  September 25, 1944. Swami, George, Sarada, and I drove to Montecito this morning. At present, there is nothing to report. It’s just another move. I have a dear little room with a light nicely fixed over the desk, and now all I have to do is finish Prater Violet and get together a book of selected articles from our magazine and write an introduction to it—and pray. Meanwhile, something will develop between Vernon and myself, for good or bad. No use worrying.

  Amiya is girlishly happy here. She plans a family within the family—herself, Vernon, me. She’s prepared to make us comfortable, like an affectionate aunt. This is her home now. It is not my home. Perhaps no place ever will be again. There’s nothing tragic in that. To learn to be alone and at home inside myself—that’s what I’m here for.

  September 26. Vernon is depressed. I asked him if he wants to leave. He said that he felt “an obligation” to me. I feel as if all our troubles are starting, just as they started before.

  October 6. Vernon away in Los Angeles, seeing the dentist. I’m alone here with Amiya. Realize how fond of her I am. It’s so beautiful here. So calm and still. The grounds are three quarters wild, with thick jungly undergrowth, and a creek, and huge rocks you can climb onto and look out over the valley. At night we hear the howling of the coyotes and the quick uncanny trotting of the deer; the deer come right down through the garden, nibbling everything which isn’t fenced in. It is cold and we build huge log fires and sit talking about England and Vedanta and the members of the family. It is very snug.

  October 10. Swami is up here again. Today he gave a class, and Krishnamurti came to it. He and Swami had never met before.

  (Swami had always been prejudiced against Krishnamurt
i, because of Mrs. Besant’s publicity-making on his behalf, long ago, in India. As a youth, Swami had been outraged when she announced that Krishnamurti was an avatar. Later she used to annoy Brahmananda by trying to involve him with the Theosophical Movement. As a monk, Swami had had standing orders not to admit her to the monastery when Brahmananda was there.)

  However, the meeting today was a huge success. Krishnamurti sat quietly and modestly at the back of the class. And when Swami was through, he came over and they greeted each other with the deepest respect, bowing again and again with folded palms. And then they had a long chat, becoming very gay and Indian, and laughing like schoolboys.

  Some of Krishnamurti’s followers, who had sneaked in, knowing in advance that he was coming here—which we didn’t—stood eyeing us a bit suspiciously. But within fifteen minutes we had begun to fraternize. So a small but useful bridge was built.

  * * *

  It now became increasingly obvious that everything was going wrong between Vernon and me. My first mistake had certainly been to let him join the family so quickly. In his letters, he had made it clear that he needed time to observe life at the Center from the outside and decide whether it was the right life for him. I had agreed, and had therefore planned that we should live together on our own for a while. But when Vernon arrived and Swami immediately took control of him—as I had guessed that Swami would—I didn’t even try to prevent it; because, I suppose, that was what I really wanted. No wonder if Vernon had felt trapped.

  By nature, he was a loner. It had been hard enough for him, when we had lived together before; he was only able to bear it by spending large amounts of time away from me. It was even harder for him to live in a group, although it was easy for him to charm each member individually.

  No doubt, he had taken it for granted that we should now be simply brothers, in a monastic sense. What he wanted from me was disinterested helpfulness; no more than that. I was to help him get accustomed to his new life. This I was willing and eager to do. But I had other ideas of my own.

  I was still strongly attracted to Vernon sexually. Therefore, I wanted to use him to neutralize my sex drive. As long as I had him with me and knew that he was getting no sex, I didn’t so much mind not getting any myself. (This dog-in-the-manger approach to chastity is perhaps not uncommon in monasteries and convents.) I also had a fantasy—too secret to be clearheadedly examined—of a sublimated love affair between us. We would be monks for each other’s sake; this would be our way of loving each other.

  I believed that Vernon guessed, more or less, what it was I wanted and that it scared and repelled him. I know that he felt I was using emotional blackmail on him to make him remain with me, instead of letting him come to his own decision. That was what he had meant by referring to an “obligation.” After a few weeks, he did speak out and tell me he wished I would go back to the Hollywood Center and leave him at Montecito. I left him, but I didn’t go direct to the Center. I needed the calm of a neutral environment, so I went to visit Chris Wood in Laguna.

  (Vernon left Montecito later that winter and settled down in Los Angeles to a secular life. After this, we began meeting again, as ordinary, affectionate friends.)

  * * *

  November 25. Am writing this in the downstairs bedroom, waiting for Chris to come and say it’s time to go swimming. The weather has been glorious all week.

  As always, Chris is a refuge. His friendship has no strings attached, and, at the same time, you know you can’t lean on him. He simply offers you a place to stay and his company, if you want it, within certain hours. He respects your privacy absolutely. When you do confide in him, he never makes you feel you have given yourself away.

  I expect to go back to the Hollywood Center next Monday or Tuesday, to stay for some while. I’ve got to start trying to get a movie job. I need money badly. Yesterday I finished the final polishing of Prater Violet.

  There is no sense in running away from the Center at present. I’ve got to learn to live with the family without becoming involved in it. Avoid gossip. Avoid their feuds. Concentrate on what is essential—contact with Swami, and prayer. Associate with people you can really help in one way or another, and not with those whose curiosity is always offering you a basin for your tears.

  November 30. Have been back at the Center for two days. Swami asked me how I was feeling and I told him a little, not much, about Vernon. This evening, in the shrine, I saw the various alternatives so clearly that they frightened me. Can I possibly face the prospect of living here indefinitely? Or of growing old messily, by myself?

  Am starting to see Alfred again. An awful lot of my guilt about this is simply fear of appearances. I shouldn’t feel guilty if I weren’t living at the Center. That being true, my guilt is spurious.

  Swami says that the only refuge is in God. What a terrible thought that is—and yet it’s also reassuring and absolutely obvious. Shall I ever get it properly through my head?

  December 5. Down to Santa Monica to see Denny. He was very sweet and sympathetic. He suggested, as so often before, that I should come and live with him here, or that we’d go East together and he’d study at Columbia. But I can’t walk out on Swami right now. And Denny himself is so unsettled. I could never rely on him.

  Swami was still up, sitting by the fire, when I got home. “You will live long,” he told me—and explained that he’d been thinking about me just as I walked in, and that the Hindus believe this is an omen of longevity. Suddenly I felt such peace. There he sits, while I roam around. After all, there is really no problem, no difficulty. Why do I tie myself in all these knots?

  December 16. Just back from the beach. Denny found a sea gull with a broken wing and amputated it, which made the bird more comfortable but didn’t solve its problem. I followed it up the beach and saw how the other gulls pecked at it, and how it couldn’t fly or swim and would almost certainly starve. So I killed it. This made me feel horrible all day. I asked Swami, did I do right? And he said no, one shouldn’t interfere with the karma of any creature. This doesn’t quite convince me, however. What else could I have done? Taken the sea gull home, I suppose, and made a pet of it. But this wasn’t practical, with Dhruva around.

  December 31. Sure, I ought to stop seeing Alfred or leave the Center or both. But, sooner or later—probably quite soon—Alfred will go to New York. Sooner or later, I shall get a movie job or start another book. Meanwhile, nothing prevents me from doing the one thing that’s important—make japam.

  Everything else, including your scruples about your conduct, is vanity, in the last analysis. Never mind what other people think of you. Never mind what you think of yourself. Stop trying to tidy up your life. Stop making vows—you’ll only break them. No more tears, I beg. Come on, St. Augustine—amuse us. And let’s make this a happy new year.

  * * *

  In 1945, Vivekananda’s birthday was celebrated on January 5. (Like Easter, the Hindu holy days fall on different dates from year to year, because they are fixed in relation to phases of the moon.) On the morning of the birthday, Sister would bring coffee, bacon, and eggs on a tray into the shrine room. She would pour the coffee for Vivekananda and later she would light him a cigarette, leaving it to burn itself out in an ashtray. Meanwhile, the Katha Upanishad would be read aloud, because that had been his favorite scripture. What gave this ceremony its special feeling of intimacy and personal contact was the fact that Sister actually had served breakfast to Vivekananda in her own home, while he was visiting California at the beginning of the century.

  Though my diary doesn’t say so, I think this was the year that Swami first let me read the Katha Upanishad at the breakfast ceremony. In later years, this became my only opportunity to take an active part in ritual worship at the Center, and I nearly always did the reading if I was in Los Angeles.

  * * *

  Early in January, a writer for Time magazine came to interview us. Time’s editors had decided to run a piece about Swami and the Vedanta Society and me, with r
eference to the publication of our Gita translation. Swami was delighted. I had misgivings but agreed that this would at least be a far-reaching advertisement for the Gita itself—which, in those days, was practically unknown to the American magazine-reading public, despite its many previous translations into English.

  The piece appeared in the February 12 issue of Time. My misgivings were justified:

  Ten years ago Christopher Isherwood was one of the most promising of younger English novelists, and a member of the radical, pacifist literary set sometimes known as “the Auden circle.” Now, thinking seriously of becoming a swami (religious teacher), he is studying in a Hindu temple in Hollywood, Calif.… Much-traveled Author Isherwood’s early novel, The Last of Mr. Norris, was a grisly, eyewitness account of British pro-Nazis in Berlin. His Journey to a War (with verse commentary by W. H. Auden) was a stark, unromanticized look at embattled China. Now this rebellious son of a British lieutenant colonel lives monastically with three other men and eight women in a small house adjoining the alabaster temple of the Vedanta Society of Southern California. He shares his income and the housework with his fellow students, and daily ponders the teachings of his master, Swami Prabhavananda … Three times each day Isherwood repairs to the temple, sits cross-legged between grey-green walls on which are hung pictures of Krishna, Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, other great religious teachers. The swami sits bareheaded, wearing a long, bright yellow robe that sweeps the floor. He too sits cross-legged, pulls a shawl around him, and for ten minutes meditates in silence. Then in a ringing bass he chants a Sanskrit invocation, repeats it in English, ending with the words, “Peace, Peace, Peace!” This dispassionate ceremony is the ritual of a mystical order of which slight, agreeable, cigaret-smoking Swami Prabhavananda is the Los Angeles leader …

  The mistakes made by the writer—no more and no fewer than were to be expected—all became household jokes. There was the “alabaster” temple, the “small house” in which four men and eight women live “monastically,” the robe which “sweeps the floor,” the “dispassionate” ceremony (whatever that might mean) which lasts just over ten minutes, three times a day.