Liberation

by Christopher Isherwood

  March 16. A girl named Catherine Cook came to see me about a thesis she is writing on my work. She wore a maxi coat or robe or whatever, which looked like a tacky black velvet you’d get from the Goodwill.21 She was pretty, quite intelligent, but overly gushy. I was just too informal for words—served her coffee in the kitchen and we sat at the kitchen table. Her father and mother (a Belgian, and even gushier on the phone than Catherine) were waiting in a car several blocks away, up towards Sloane Square; maybe they had instructions to call the police if she didn’t return before nightfall. Anyhow, it made her seem helpless and coddled—which she didn’t at all have the air of being. I talked volumes, chiefly about other people, and she never tried to bring me back to the subject. Perhaps she merely wanted to meet me.

  Then I went to see Nick Furbank. I have met him before but I didn’t in the least remember what he looked like. He is pale and he stammers. Am not sure what I feel about him. His face isn’t altogether a face one trusts. I told him right away that I don’t want Morgan’s letters to me to go into the book he is writing. I said they were too personal and really much more about me than Morgan; but of course what I mean is that I would like to turn them into a book, myself. Nick seemed rather surprised when I said I felt we couldn’t publish Maurice without Bob [Buckingham]’s permission. And perhaps I am being overconsiderate about this; because Bob’s objections, if any, would really be May [Buckingham]’s. ( Joe Ackerley told me, during that meeting in Coventry in 1967, that May was now declaring that Bob had never known what homosexuality was until quite recently, when Morgan had told him—and Nick says she takes the same attitude now.) But Nick also says that Bob has so far raised no objections to his book, in which Nick intends to be absolutely frank about sex.

  He lent me two of Morgan’s later stories, the one which takes place on board ship and one I haven’t read before, called “Dr. Woolacott.”22

  Then I had supper with Bob Regester and Neil Hartley at a Greek restaurant just below the Post Office Tower. So Bob and I went up the tower, mildly drunk and daring each other, but it really isn’t very giddy making—especially at night—unless you stand right up against the railings at the open section. Bob is fun to be with on such occasions but I feel I’m apt to overdo the aged schoolboy role. Also my conscience is pricking me because I haven’t been working at anything but just pleasuring myself, as Don calls it. I keep thinking about him and hoping he’s all right. Sometimes I wonder, is he unwilling to come back here because of [his friend]?

  Last night I dreamt of being in an earthquake. Wasn’t really scared.

  March 17. 6:45 p.m., have just finishing talking to Don on the phone. This time it was much more cheerful and it seems he got a very good notice and also Irving Blum wants to take the show to San Francisco and New York. But Don wants to come back here soon, so maybe he’ll join us all on this trip to the South of France for Easter.

  Yesterday David and Peter and I had lunch at Marguerite [Lamkin]’s. I’m really fond of her but this lunching is ghastly. She cannot resist inviting lots of other people and stuffing us with food and creating an anti-oasis in the midst of the day.

  Then we went to the Richard Hamilton show at the Tate and Peter and I went to Zabriskie Point* and had supper together at Odin’s, and Patrick Procktor came in, fresh from India, and covered me with effusion. I didn’t snub him but it was embarrassing, after the vile way he behaved to Don.

  Today Clement brought the newly typed scripts around. Very few typos and I think it reads well. He still wants it lengthened, but I said not until we are going into rehearsal. The play is now being sent to Alec Guinness and to Donald McWhinnie and Peter Gill as possible directors.

  March 18. Peter Gill is out of it, I just heard from Clement. He’ll be working in Canada until much later.

  Have been lunching with Bob Regester. Vanessa and Corin Redgrave† and their daughters were there. Also Rory Cameron, whom I met at Marguerite’s lunch. He’s rather a nice man, writes travel books, lives on Cap Ferrat. Vanessa seemed quite ridiculously large and thick thighed and hoydenish and she sort of mother-handled the little girls, like a great big tactless nanny. We went ice skating, which I enjoyed greatly, though I thought old Drub’s shaky ankles would never survive. Have been so hugely fat, lately, what with enforced drinking, bread eating and rich desserts.

  David Plante really is a darling. I’d forgotten how dark-eyed and vulnerably American he is. I spent a lot of yesterday skimming at top speed through his novel, which I’d tactfully bought. And then he brought me a signed copy.* We had supper together. Nikos [Stangos] didn’t come, because an aunt of his has died. David said that the aunt was a wonderful woman but her death (cancer) had been long expected and he couldn’t quite understand the tremendous upset it caused Nikos. We agreed that Mediterranean people use grief as a ritual to somehow propitiate the spirits of the dead— that there’s this always in addition to what the mourner naturally feels. David is eager that we shall all get together, but I have a hunch I won’t like Nikos so much, this time around. He sounds so domineering. David says of himself that he is very jealous—so much so that he never wants to do anything to make Nikos jealous of him, for fear of reprisals! Stephen [Spender], that old monster, has been urging David to marry—telling him that if you don’t you miss a great experience. The boys see through him but adore him.

  March 19. It turns out that Rory Cameron was the driver of the car which wrecked and so severely injured Norman Prouting, years ago, on the Riviera. Like the other passengers, all rich people, he apparently neglected Norman completely while he was going through the subsequent operations—Norman still limps slightly— and never offered to help him with money. At least that’s what I infer, because of Norman’s reaction when I mentioned Rory’s name to him last night; he froze up solid.

  We went together to see [Shaw’s] The Apple Cart. John Neville was really excellent as King Magnus. He could play Patrick, but his face is wrong, there’s a dryness in it, hard to imagine him being physically vain.

  This morning Clement told me that two other German theaters are interested in our play. The script is now with Alec Guinness and Donald McWhinnie.

  I’ve just had lunch with Moore Crosthwaite, at his house near Clapham Common. He has much of the style of a former British Ambassador to Stockholm and Beirut but this merely modifies what might otherwise be a too screaming queenishness; it strikes a balance and makes him human. He’s got an American friend living in the house and old Herbert List staying there for a few days. Herbert, increasingly pouchy and full bellied, is keener than ever on collecting prints. Much was spoken against Warhol’s films and in praise of Hockney’s pictures.

  Speaking of Hockney reminds me that he told me today on the phone that he had just called Don to try to persuade him to come to France with us. I don’t quite see how Don can do this unless he takes off tomorrow, since he wants to use an excursion ticket and that is no good for weekends. I’ll probably hear from Don himself in the morning. He had told David that he would first have to ask Irving Blum if he was needed in Los Angeles, but maybe this was an excuse. David had told Don to come and draw French food, and then show his drawings in the States to attract American gourmets to France. This is the sort of superficially silly sounding remark which actually reveals the shrewdness of David’s character, because one can quite imagine him literally doing that and making money out of it. (Indeed, the other night, when I was having supper with Peter at Odin’s, the proprietor Peter Langan asked me to contribute to a pornographic cookbook he is preparing, and said David has promised to illustrate it!)

  March 20. Talked to Don this morning. I don’t think he really wants to come back here, and not particularly to come with us to France, which seems set for Monday. We had one of our best kind of conversations; everything we said, even the details about calling the Maltins23 to see about the second payment on the property tax, was full of love. I can truly say, with Patrick in our play, “How lucky I am!”

  Last night I too
k Nancy [West], Joe Ackerley’s sister, out to supper at The Hungry Horse, along with Nick Furbank and a quite nice young artist who knows Mark Lancaster, named Richard Shone. Nancy was very lively and seemed quite contented with her life, though she talks about Joe continually. She really is an amazingly handsome woman, for her age. Shone, who’s about twenty, is a great talker and all went merrily. We even got the desirable table in an alcove. But Nancy is a demon pourer of drinks—I had the wits to resist them, but Nick Furbank turned clay pale in the restaurant, said he had to get some air and then fainted. However, this morning on the phone, he sounded all right again.

  March 21. Shortly before eleven this morning, I decided to dial Tony Richardson in London and ask him what his number is in the South of France, so I could give it to Nicholas Thompson and Clement, in case of emergencies. When I called the number there seemed to be a lot of confusion, a foreign voice answered, I asked was this 536 6933 and the voice said yes. I asked for Tony and the voice said, “Have you seen the paper this morning? I suggest you look on the front page of the Daily Mirror—there’s a picture of him.” I tried to ask more questions and he repeated, “I suggest you look in the paper.”

  Well then of course I thought, Tony’s been killed in a car wreck—or at best he’s been involved in some gruesome scandal, and I decided it must have been the voice of Jan [Niem], Tony’s Polish chauffeur, telling me this. But then I rang Peter Schlesinger and he got a Mirror and there was no picture of Tony and nothing about him, and he rang Tony’s number and the housekeeper told him Tony is expected back today, so the whole thing seems to have been a false alarm. Maybe I got a wrong number and the man who answered was a malicious practical joker, or drunk or high on something.

  Now we have air tickets for Monday, with a stop in Paris. We’re supposed to arrive in Nice late, around ten or eleven, and find a hired car waiting for us in which we’ll drive off somewhere without delay. Obviously these arrangements may well break down and so I’m somewhat dreading the trip but at the same time looking forward to travelling with David and Peter.

  Yesterday Bob Regester and I had lunch on the Post Office Tower. The outer part of the dining room, on which the tables are, revolves; the inner part doesn’t, which is somewhat sick making. Also, there is one phase of the revolution which is unpleasantly bumpy. The food is terrifically expensive; our meal cost six guineas. The overall prospect of London has been largely spoilt by all these towers. St. Paul’s, Tower Bridge, Westminster Cathedral, the Abbey and Parliament are now completely dwarfed. Afterwards we joined an attractive young Australian, John Hopkins, who helped me buy a Burberry. Hopkins worked on the crew of Ned Kelly and we met him in Australia, though I didn’t remember him exactly.24

  A very happy supper with David Plante, Mark Lancaster and Peter Schlesinger at the Carrosse. We had a table downstairs, half a long Victorian desk-table in fact. It was divided in two by artificial plants and a rampart of leather-bound books, including [Willard] Motley and Montaigne, so that you could hardly see the people dining at the other end. This kind of device, so amusing and original, is absolutely unthinkable in the States. It would terrify them if you suggested it. It’s an utterly alien style of camp.

  I must keep reminding myself how disgustingly fat I am, about 156 pounds. All very well to say don’t eat, don’t drink; all these meals and drinks are practically forced on me, socially. And tonight there’s this big party being given “for” me by Robert Medley. The only thing is moderation, but that’s hardest of all.

  God is very far. Don is near. I think of him increasingly. The day before yesterday, I think it was, I saw [his friend] on the street, between the Royal Court and the Underground entrance. I was going into the Underground and had to pass quite close. Probably he saw me. He looked very bald.

  God, how wretchedly cold it still is! The heaters don’t help much and anyhow I begrudge the money. This is what spoils London, despite all its other charms. Never underestimate the power of this mild dampish cold. It creates puritanism, primness, disbelief in Love and God and a taste for mini-art.

  March 22. A little sun, this morning. I’ve started writing this in the hopes that it’ll make Patrick Woodcock arrive; he is coming to take me to lunch. Tomorrow morning, David Hockney, Peter and I are to meet at the West London Air Terminal at 10:30, to start our trip. It’s really very exciting and I am looking forward to it, despite my constitutional dislike of travelling.

  Have talked to Amiya [Sandwich] in the country (Chard, Somerset) and to Dodie Smith; shall have to see both of them when I get back.

  Lamont Johnson has been here. He has some prospects of making a film out of Black Girl.

  Later. Have had lunch with Patrick. He would like me to take his friend David Mann out and find out what the problem is between them. I asked him, “Do you like him?” He said, “Just for a snap judgment, I should have to answer no.” He said of Don (admiringly) that he was “beady,” and that he knew Don hadn’t liked David. Don had given him some good advice: “Your tempos are different.”

  Bob Regester says he probably isn’t coming to the Nid de Duc because Tony doesn’t want him. He thinks this is because Tony doesn’t like John Hopkins, saying, in effect, that he’s a cockteaser.

  Last night I had a drink (soda water) with John Cullen of Methuen. John Cullen doesn’t like Henry Heckford’s book,25 says it simply isn’t intelligent enough and that he doesn’t understand how to write a critical essay. He wanted me to read it. But I don’t really want to, because then I will have to condemn it, which might even mean my rewriting it. I told him about Alan Wilde’s book26—then felt rather a traitor because I’d done so. Cullen is wild about Brecht.

  A big party last night, given for me by Robert Medley. He had worked for hours and produced an astonishingly impressive amount of edible food and delicious boys. But oh, the terrible schizophrenia of parties! One is pulled in all directions by the chatter. My haven was the Hockney gang, including Wayne Sleep, Mark Lancaster and his twins,* Karl Bowen and a black-haired boy† who shares a flat with Wayne. False Patrick Procktor danced memorably with closed eyes, like a very tall zombie; Christopher Gibbs27 in strangely embroidered boots, streaming with sweat, brought a greeting from Mick Jagger; a boy in silver pants contorted like a serpent; a Congo prince wore a sweater which showed a bare midriff; Keith Milow was one of the most attractive people present, in the manner of Mick Jagger; a bearded bore named Philip Matthews28 wanted to know what had become of Bill Coldstream’s painting of me.40 (This morning, in The Observer’s colored supplement, is an article on David called “No Dumb Blond,” with his painting of Don and me included.) Throughout the four and a half hours I stayed at Robert’s party, I didn’t drink anything but a little grapefruit juice! (But today at lunch, wine, alas.)

  March 23. 7:30 a.m. and pouring down rain, the heaviest since I’ve been in London! Thanks a million. So now I’m washed, shaved, dressed, with nothing to pack but a little bag and nothing to do but go. I wish I could hear from Don first but somehow I feel unwilling to call, it’d be just spending more phone money. I long to tell him how much I love him.

  Supper last night with Robert Moody and his wife Louise. Like so many of my contemporaries, Robert looked like a little old man when I first met him, the pretty blond hair turned white and gone from the crown. But then the boy reappeared from behind the wrinkles. Robert’s mannerisms, I now realize, always had something in them of the old man, he was like a young actor playing old age and poking fun at it—screwing up his face and puttering around. He has had heart attacks but is all right now. He is a Jungian, has actually known Jung and has been president of the international society of Jungian analysts, whatever that is called. He told how he had sat next to Jung at a big dinner and Jung had said to him, “You needn’t feel you have to talk to me—when one gets old one is grateful if one isn’t talked to.” Jung had confided to him that, “When one’s old it is over very quick,” referring to sex acts.

  Our evening was evidently a great succes
s, as far as Robert was concerned. I found it hard to read Louise. She sat there, motherly, rather plump. Robert kept referring, rather awkwardly, to his two other wives. All his stories seemed to include them. It was impossible to say if Louise minded this, but Robert was certainly apologetic about it.

  8:30—Don has just called! He seems to be seriously considering coming over, via Nice, in a day or two. I only hope, if he does, that there won’t be some ghastly mix-up. Everything you do in France is just twice as difficult.

  March 24. Prophetic words! We did get to Nice yesterday and indeed all the way to Tony Richardson’s house, but both our planes were hours late due to an airport strike at Orly and we didn’t reach Tony’s till nearly three this morning. In Paris we only had time to wander about for a while in the Latin Quarter, see the newly cleaned Notre Dame and visit two friends of David and Peter’s—Jean Léger and Alexis29 who were getting ready to attend a supper party in drag. The guests, they explained, were all “serious” business people who had never been in drag before. They had got themselves lent very handsome Chanel clothes for the occasion, and some shoes which had been made for black actresses and were extra large.

  It rained heavily in the evening and the wait at Orly seemed interminable, almost.* To my surprise, when we did at last get to Nice, the rented car was still available, and David, with magnificent determination, drove us all the way to Le Nid de Duc, through fog and up into the mountains. Today, following his “whiz tour” schedule, he drove us to Carcassonne. I’m writing this at the Hotel Donjon in the Old City. No more for now, because I’m exhausted.

  March 25. Yesterday, at the Nid de Duc,† I was woken by a rooster and several peacocks; this morning (around six) by a water lock in the next-door bathroom pipes—I suspect David of getting up to scoop the sunrise in his eager beaver way.