by Colin Wilson
Cunningham took me home and let me go to bed without further talk. I still cannot explain the cold in the room. But this doesn’t mean that I accept the idea of ghosts; after all, it could be due to physical causes—a draught down a chimney or something.
Thinking about it all, I feel badly puzzled. I can see already what Cunningham is driving at. He wants me to admit that, since I reject this boring world of my everyday experience, I may as well take the plunge into the occult world. But I am ultimately unconvinced by it as I was by Father Carruthers’s Catholicism. I agree that the answer fits the questions; but that still doesn’t guarantee that it’s the right answer. Cunningham has already dropped hints of the direction in which he wants to lead me. We are to form a society who will ‘dare anything’. For example, he asked me questions about Christine that make me suppose that he is thinking of her as a possible subject for his ‘sex magic’ (I don’t know what Oliver would say!). Oh, I can see it all with complete clarity. Cunningham has not yet succeeded in impressing the world, in getting the world to take him on his own terms. He is now approaching fifty; he has published a couple of dozen volumes of various kinds (so he tells me) and yet he is completely unknown. He becomes especially bitter when he talks about Auden, Isherwood and Spender, whom he knew in the thirties, and it’s easy to see that he feels that he’s been left behind. He ought to be the dominant figure of his generation, and instead of that, he only has a certain amount of newspaper notoriety. He thirsts for fame, for recognition that he is an extraordinary man. Now he feels he might be able to do it. But not merely as the patron and impresario, a role that doesn’t suit him at all. So he wants to bind his own destiny to that of Glasp, Kirsten and myself, to be the leader and mentor, the man who provides the ideas, the philosophy. We are to form a little Thebaid in the desert of modern civilization, bound together by esoteric knowledge and probably by sexual orgies.
I don’t object to this—I sympathize. There is no doubt whatever that Cunningham has helped Oliver unselfishly (because I don’t count the pocketing of Oliver’s profits as real self-interest; Cunningham feels he has earned it). If he can get Kirsten’s music performed, or my books published, I have no doubt he would do it just as unselfishly. But will he ever be accepted in his own right? I almost think Wise was right when he said that Cunningham had ‘incurred heavy spiritual reprisals’ for some loss of integrity.
But where is the point in proving to me the existence of spirits, or anything else of the kind? I don’t doubt that the house in Hanover Square is haunted, in some sense or another. There is definitely a presence in that room. But so what? There are tigers in India and polar bears at the North Pole, but they don’t make any difference to me.
All this stuff about sex magic worries me. The orgasm isn’t everything; it’s only a part of it. I know the sexual act can be supreme, bringing immense insight and triumph, a sense of the godlike. This I experienced that first night with Caroline, and again the other night with Diana. But I never experienced it with Gertrude, or Madeleine, or Carlotta. What is this elusive power that can make sex an astounding experience? It is a kind of life, freshness. The early days with Caroline had a real magic about them, even though I wasn’t in love with her. She was intensely exciting, as fresh as the heart of a lettuce, and I felt as if she was my reward for a long period of hard work and refusal to be distracted. I felt that the powers of life were in the ascendant. We normally work in the face of defeat, always aware that things may get worse, and that death is the final end. But in the best moments, we cease to be slaves; defeat vanishes, and there seems a chance that death may be ultimately defeated.
Of one thing I am sure. So far, the human race has always worshipped death and defeat. I am sickened and irritated when I read the Bible talking about ‘man’s final end’, or the respected classical writers declaring solemnly that even the greatest men must end in death. It strikes me as being nauseating flattery of a tyrant, like that ballad that talks about ‘good king John’ when everyone knows he was the rottenest swine who ever disgraced a throne. I know this is supposed to be a part of human nature, but it’s time it stopped being so. Only stupid savages adore a tyrant because he is cruel and destructive. There are times when I catch a glimpse of a state of consciousness, only slightly higher than our present one, when all the blacks will turn into white—or at least, into grey. At present, a writer can say; ‘We all agree that life is a long-drawn-out defeat, ending in death,’ and no one raises the slightest objection. But a day will come when such a statement will be greeted with yells of derision. Life is meaningless unless death can be finally defeated. And I don’t mean ‘eternal life’ in the religious sense (if we have to choose between that kind of nonsense and total pessimism, give me total pessimism any day). I mean a life in which consciousness is no longer a feeble flame, like a gas jet that takes an hour to boil a kettle. I mean a life in which men no longer feel themselves slaves, when every one of us will feel like Paris, ‘that first dawn in Helen’s arms’.
Can Cunningham show me the way towards this state? I remember reading once that magic is just a bastard form of mysticism; well, I prefer mysticism to magic.
Nov. 24th.
The Diana business has come to a head rather absurdly. I was reading in bed yesterday morning when Kirsten knocked on my door. He looked rather odd, and I suspected that he’d found out about Diana. He sat down, stared gloomily at the carpet, then said he wanted to ask my advice. Then, with a rush, he said: ‘Sorme, I think my wife is being unfaithful to me.’ I asked him cautiously what made him think that, and was glad he didn’t look at me, because my heart was thumping and I was probably red. He then held out to me a handful of letters, all scrawled in a semi-illiterate handwriting on tiny sheets of a sixpenny notepad. I said I didn’t think I had any right to look at letters addressed to his wife. He assumed from this that I was reproaching him, and asked me what he should do under the circumstances—after all, his wife’s love affairs were his concern, and he felt completely inadequate to cope with the situation. So, out of curiosity, I took the letters and glanced through them. Most of them were not dated, but one that was was over a year old. The early ones began, ‘Dear Di.’ This changed into ‘Dearest Di’ and ‘My Darling Di’, and finally into ‘My Darlingest Own’ and other endearments that made me wince. I glanced at Kirsten as I looked through them, and saw that he was trembling, and looked as if he was about to burst into tears. I couldn’t help feeling irritable with him; after all, if his wife’s unfaithful, why doesn’t he black her eye or throw her downstairs instead of confiding in his next-door neighbour? I finally said that there was no evidence that she had been unfaithful, and he snatched them from me, turned to one of the later ones, and read aloud to me a passage that began: ‘My dove, I shan’t ever forget last night and the feel of your thighs pressed against mine.’ I pointed out to him that the last letter began by mentioning that she had refused to go away with him, and accused her of ceasing to care about him. I suggested to Kirsten that the affair was probably now over, but he said that if it was over, why hadn’t she burnt the letters, instead of keeping them carefully concealed under some old magazines on top of the wardrobe. Then, to my embarrassment and astonishment, he said that he had been observing her recently, and had suspected that she was in love with somebody else—but that he had suspected it was me! At this point, I was tempted to break it to him, but found I couldn’t.
Kirsten went on to say that the letters indicated that she often met this man for lunch or after work, and that he wanted to go down to the factory and see if his suspicions were correct. I said I thought this was an excellent idea—being fairly certain that she has stopped seeing her bookmaker type. Kirsten then had to ask me if I knew where the factory was! He didn’t even know! He claimed that he’d been there, but had forgotten. It was at this point that I had my inspiration. I told him that I believed it was in Clark Street, which is actually where the back entrance of
the factory is situated. He asked me if I would go with him, but I said that I didn’t feel I had any right to spy on his wife, and he finally went off alone. As soon as I was sure he was out of the house, I rushed off to the telephone in the pub next door, and rang the factory. They refused to let me speak to Diana on the phone—said it was against the rules to allow employees to use the office phone (lousy bastards, may they rot in hell), but that they’d give her a message if it was urgent. So I told them to tell her that her husband was ill, and would like her to come home at lunch time.
My ruse worked. Half an hour later, Diana came running into the house, and had not seen Kirsten, who was probably waiting by the back entrance. As soon as she saw me, she asked ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’ and I explained quickly that nothing was wrong with Kirsten except jealousy. We decided we’d better leave the house, in case he came back when he discovered she wasn’t there. So we walked to a café in Commercial Street.
I couldn’t make up my mind whether this was a tragedy or a fortunate accident. I wanted Kirsten to find out about Diana, but we were still as far from my real goal—telling him about Diana and myself. Diana didn’t seem as upset as I expected. She said: ‘Oh, that. It’s all over.’ I had to explain to her that this might be the opportunity we wanted. If Kirsten should throw her out, we could live together. She said: ‘But he won’t throw me out.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because he’s too reliant on me.’ ‘But if he’s reliant on you, why were you unfaithful to him?’ ‘He was only reliant on me in some ways. Not at all in others.’
Nevertheless, I felt that this was the time to make changes, if we intend to make them. So I told her that she couldn’t go back to work, and that she didn’t have to go back to Kirsten at all. We could simply find ourselves a room somewhere else, and I’ve enough money to support us, with a little care. The idea obviously appealed to her (I’m sure that her life with Kirsten is beginning to ruin her). But she finally said that she couldn’t simply leave him without talking to him. And in spite of my persuasions, she insisted on going back to work even though she hadn’t eaten anything. However, she agreed that she would try to bring things to a head with Kirsten and try to get him accustomed to the idea that they should live apart. I managed to persuade her to take a few sandwiches back to work with her, and she went off.
I immediately felt a sense of anticlimax, so I walked up to see Cunningham to tell him what had happened.
When I got there, I saw something that surprised me. Cunningham was still in bed, drinking lemon tea. Oliver was also in the room in a dressing-gown. This would not have struck me as in any way peculiar, except that Oliver became violently embarrassed when he saw me, made some excuse, and hurried out. Cunningham looked after him ironically. I also noticed that Oliver didn’t look his usual self; his eyes seemed partly closed up, or perhaps they simply looked ‘faraway’—I didn’t have time to observe him closely and make up my mind. I’d be startled to hear that Oliver has turned homosexual, but I wouldn’t blame him particularly. I can hardly put any other interpretation on his embarrassment when I appeared, unless he was simply embarrassed at being caught in his dressing-gown at one in the afternoon. And I doubt this. Yet when I remember some of the scathing things he once said about queers, I find it difficult to accept it. As to Cunningham, I’m sure he’s bisexual anyway; it’s impossible not to tell, from the way he treats me occasionally, that he’s had some homosexual experience.
However, I didn’t raise this matter, but told Cunningham what had happened about Diana. He didn’t seem to understand me at first. He said: ‘But my dear boy, why not let them work it out for themselves?’ I explained that I thought this was as good an opportunity as any to get Diana to break with Kirsten. ‘But why? Why shouldn’t you simply continue as you are?’ When I explained that I’d like to live with Diana, he said, in a slightly shocked voice: ‘You’re not in love with her, I hope?’ I said that I simply found her very attractive, and thought it a pity she should stay with Kirsten. Cunningham then got out of bed. (I have yet to see a more repulsive sight than Cunningham naked; he has a lot of surplus fat, large, almost female breasts, and is covered in hairs; he also smelt abominably of sweat and some musky kind of perfume.) He insisted that I come up with him to the bathroom, and he talked to me while he took his shower. After this, he powdered himself elaborately with talcum, sprayed himself with scent, and rubbed some kind of spirit into his genitals. (He gave me a short discourse on the health of the sexual organs, explaining that they are, after all, almost the only parts of the body that never see the light of day, and never have a chance to get sunburned; then declared that savages who live naked are twice as potent as men who wear trousers; hence Cunningham devotes special attention to his member, ‘toning it up’ with pure alcohol and various other stimulants!) Meanwhile, I could tell that this new development struck him as interesting. But his only concern was whether it would upset Kirsten. When he’d finished dressing, he said: ‘Look, my boy, leave this in my hands. I will come and see Kirsten this afternoon.’ I asked him to be tactful, and he promised that he wouldn’t mention that I’d told him.
I went back home, meeting Oliver on the landing—he wouldn’t look at me. (I thought this a good opportunity to mention that I’d seen Christine, but all he said was: ‘Oh good, give her my regards’, as he vanished into his room!) When I got into my own room, I found Kirsten waiting for me! He said that he’d waited there all through the lunch hour, but that Diana hadn’t emerged; I said that she probably stayed inside eating sandwiches. Kirsten was by this time in a pretty emotional state; I could see he’d been crying, and I felt miserable. He even seized my hands and asked me to forgive him for suspecting me of being Diana’s lover! This made me feel so guilty that I decided that, if necessary, I would give Diana up, and persuade Kirsten to forgive her. He began to reproach himself, said he’d never paid her enough attention, and that it was disgraceful to allow her to work in such a place (evidently the squalor of the neighbourhood had impressed him).
After twenty minutes of this, Cunningham arrived. We heard him knocking on Kirsten’s door. I quickly asked Kirsten if he wanted to see Cunningham, and he shook his head. However, Cunningham bounded up the stairs. I must say, he’s an excellent actor—started to talk about some business, then stopped and asked: ‘Is anything wrong? Have I come at a bad time?’ Kirsten looked sheepish, and I explained that he was upset about his wife. Cunningham got the cue immediately: ‘Why? Has she left you?’ Kirsten didn’t need much encouragement to tell him the whole story. I then saw a remarkable piece of ‘persuasion’. Cunningham listened gravely, looked at the letters, and finally said: ‘My dear chap, I sympathize with you. It must be rather a shock. But—don’t mind my being frank—I can’t help thinking that you’re lucky.’ Kirsten looked surprised, and Cunningham went on: ‘Don’t think that I dislike Diana—I don’t. I think she’s a delightful girl. But is she the woman to share the life of an artist of your stature?’ I could see immediately that he’d struck the right note. He went into the question of the wives of men of genius—Mozart’s Constance, Haydn’s Maria, Wagner’s Minna—and pointed out that most of them are catastrophic, or at least thoroughly unsuitable, declared that Bach and Schumann are the only two great musicians to have made suitable marriages, but still declared that Beethoven, Brahms and Schubert had been wisest in remaining celibate. It was, I suppose, a fairly obvious form of flattery—to keep comparing Kirsten to Beethoven, etc., but it worked like magic. Kirsten’s eyes began to sparkle, his head lifted, and he looked like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet. Then Cunningham went on to speak about the essential loneliness of greatness, to say that Beethoven could never have written the Hammerklavier and the Ninth Symphony if he’d been happily married, and to declare his belief that men of genius must learn to accept their destiny, which is all arranged in advance by providence.
Then, having got Kirsten into a state of exaltation, Cunningham said that he’d com
e to tell him that the representative of a famous Washington opera society was in London, and was anxious to hear the music of Varney the Vampire. This, of course, completed the work of making Kirsten forget his upset. He mentioned that he had just put the finishing touches to a ‘fantastic overture’, which he was thinking of using for the Weir opera (when I supply the libretto!). Cunningham immediately demanded to hear it, and we all went on to see the orchestrion (although apparently Kirsten had made an arrangement not to use the warehouse during the day, when his music is likely to distract the workmen). He collected up sheets of disarranged music paper from all over the room, and we went. Luckily, the warehouse was empty, and I took the precaution of putting on two pairs of trousers and a woollen scarf, so the next hour was very enjoyable. The fantastic overture wasn’t entirely a success—partly because Kirsten couldn’t read his own writing, and often had to stop and work out what key he’d intended, partly because he put the music in the wrong order, and also because parts of the overture were supposed to be played on keys that he hadn’t yet installed on the instrument. However, Cunningham demanded to hear pieces of Varney again, and Kirsten needed no encouragement. I must admit that it sounded even more impressive than last time. I cannot see how the opera can fail, once it’s decently performed. After this, Kirsten went on playing of his own accord—a sonata for piano and violin which sounded excellent on the orchestrion, and then some fragments of a witches’ sabbath that he’s written for Weir. We both praised them lavishly. At the end of an hour, someone came into the warehouse, and Kirsten decided we’d better go. On the way home, he was singing us fragments of his compositions, outlining his plans for a three-part opera on the life of Buddha, and talking about going to America to conduct Varney. When Cunningham mentioned Diana, his face fell, and it was obvious that the memory hurt him. Cunningham immediately began explaining that what he needs is a woman who is entirely devoted to him, who loves his music and cherishes his genius.