by Colin Wilson
As we turned the corner to go into this house, we saw Diana coming from the other end of the street. We waited for her, and she and Kirsten went up the stairs first. She looked so nervous that it was obvious that she knew something was in the wind, but I don’t think Kirsten noticed. Cunningham and I watched them go into her room, and then went on up to my room. I expected to hear raised voices, but not a sound came from their room. Cunningham looked absurdly pleased with himself.
I produced some wine—not very good stuff, but standing it in a bowl of warm water for five minutes improved it slightly—and we sat and talked. Cunningham lit a cigarette, and said: ‘It’s strange, my dear Gerard, how easily our emotions can be influenced.’ The way he said ‘My dear Gerard . . .’ and threw away the match, reminded me of Austin, and I must have stared at him in an odd way, because he asked me what was the matter. I said he reminded me of a friend, and mentioned Austin’s name. He immediately asked me to tell him more about Austin, saying that Oliver had mentioned the name several times. I felt embarrassed about this; I don’t want to be drawn into speaking about Austin (his father spent half an hour impressing on me the importance of absolute and total silence about him, and since he concluded the lecture by handing me the cheque, I feel under a certain obligation to keep my word). Luckily, as soon as I mentioned that Austin was homosexual, Cunningham was side-tracked; he evidently thought this was what I meant, and said quite openly: ‘But then, I’m not completely homosexual, of course.’ I assured him that this wasn’t what I meant, but the discussion then turned into homosexuality, and I was glad to have got away from the subject of Austin. He asked me if I was bisexual; I said no, and admitted that I have so little homosexuality in my composition that I’m totally baffled by the phenomenon—I simply can’t imagine how a man could find another man attractive. Cunningham declared that this is so in a few people—their sexual impulses are like a river that runs in a very narrow and deep gorge, and can never overflow in any other direction, no matter how high they rise. His own impulses, he said, have always been for the most part heterosexual, but if he ever reaches an intense peak of sexual frustration, he could satisfy himself on man, woman, child or animal.
By this time we’d emptied one bottle of wine and opened another, and it was obvious to me that he was in the mood for self-revelation. So I kept firing questions at him. The story of how he first developed a taste for homosexuality strikes me as interesting. When he was eighteen, and had only just gone up to Oxford, he fell violently in love with a waitress—a small girl, not conventionally pretty, but with lovely eyes and a boyish body. For several weeks he pursued her with gifts and poems, and she finally gave herself to him. He was so crazy about her by this time that he decided he must marry her as soon as he could get permission from his guardian, or when he was twenty-one. She declared that she would never leave him, and allowed him to take a cottage for her just outside the town, where he spent all his free hours with her. For six months they were ecstatically happy; then one day, he discovered that she was in the habit of betraying him. She was a nymphomaniac who had to keep having sex as often as she could get it. As a waitress in a café, with a cottage of her own and a lover who could only call at certain hours, she had plenty of opportunity, and even slept with the milkman. In fact, it was with the milkman that Cunningham actually caught her in the act. They were not even in bed, but in the kitchen, against the table. Now she knew there was no point in lying, she was completely frank, and admitted that on one occasion, she had even had sex with the baker in the outside lavatory while Cunningham was lying in her bed, waiting for her to bring him a cup of tea! The need for haste and the possibility of being caught only made her enjoy it more.
Cunningham was overwhelmed; he wanted to kill her. He was insanely in love with her, and her infidelities made no difference; in a way, they only made her more desirable. Yet he knew he could never bear to stay with her. It was the end of term; he went to Scotland and tried to forget her; it was impossible. He went to London and tried sleeping with prostitutes; he found them loathesome, although this was by no means his first experience. He said that he found the majority of women detestable because they were so unlike her; but when a girl reminded him of her, this was even worse, because it brought back her infidelities.
For weeks he was tormented. Then one evening, at a friend’s party, he looked across the room, and met a pair of large, dark eyes in a pale face. Instantly, he felt weak and shattered; he knew that he was in love again. The eyes had looked at him in a way that told him that nothing could prevent them coming together. He finally gained enough strength to push his way across the room, and found the beloved talking to their host. And it was a man. Cunningham said that at first he was horrified (his upbringing had been strictly religious, and although he thought himself ‘emancipated’, he was still easily shockable). But as soon as he began to talk to the stranger—whose name was Roddy—he realized that this made no difference. Two hours later, they left the party together. Roddy had a cottage at Stratford; they drove there through the night, arriving at dawn, staggered into the house, and immediately tumbled into bed. They stayed there for a fortnight, with brief visits to the local shops for food! Roddy was also at Oxford, and they returned together the following term. His nymphomaniac waitress was still working in the same café and living in the same cottage; two months before, he would not have believed it possible that he could return to Oxford and be indifferent to her presence. But he was. The affair with Roddy lasted only a few weeks, but when it was over, Cunningham was completely cured of his earlier love affair.
I asked Cunningham if he had had any exclusively homosexual periods since then. He said only one, just after the war, in London, when he had suffered a great disappointment (he did not specify what this was). He suddenly decided that he would wash it out of his system with a period of promiscuity, and for a year had frequented homosexual clubs. He said that he found most satisfaction when it was unexpected and in completely unsuitable surroundings, and suddenly was able to understand his nymphomaniac waitress in Oxford. He said he soon discovered that there are a large proportion of homosexuals among taxi-drivers, railway-porters and window-cleaners. He said that he found that a completely frank approach was usually best.
It had been about an hour and a half since we left Kirsten outside his door. Now Kirsten came in, looking very pleased with himself, and announced: ‘She’s gone.’ ‘Gone?’ I said. ‘Where to?’ ‘The other man.’ He said that it hadn’t been an angry meeting; she was very quiet and reasonable, and told him that she found him too distant and detached, and that when another man had showed sympathy, she had found it irresistible. She felt that he didn’t need her. (All this, of course, was exactly the right approach—to confirm Kirsten’s feeling of being a ‘man on his own’, a genius with his head in the clouds and no time for women.) Finally, Kirsten said generously that he was willing to let her go, if she was sure the other man loved her. She admitted that she wasn’t sure of this. Kirsten then rose to heights of unselfishness, and told her to go and see the ‘other man’, explain the situation to him and ask him if he was willing to marry her. If he refused, then she could return to Kirsten, and he would take her back without recalling their past differences. (This made me smile. Since Diana is virtually supporting him at present, his gesture loses a lot of its effect!) So Diana had gone out.
Cunningham immediately proposed that we should go back to his place, but I said I felt tired and would stay behind. Kirsten and Cunningham went off, and I lay on the bed, and tried to restrain my impatience. This was almost impossible; I was in a fever to find what she intended to do. Finally, after an hour, she came in and came up to my room. She looked very tired. I made her take her coat off and get into bed—not from sexual motives, but because the poor child looked so miserable. She told me she had been walking around on the park, hoping that Kirsten would go out so she could talk to me. I made her tea and cooked her some fran
kfurters and eggs, and she began to improve (she hadn’t eaten all day, having been too upset during the afternoon to eat her sandwiches). It seemed to me that everything is now very simple. She can see that Kirsten isn’t going to be broken-hearted about her; her affair with the bookmaker type is at an end. There’s nothing to stop us from simply living together. She seemed unhappy and unsure, but too tired to make any resistance. So when she’d eaten, I locked the door securely, turned off the lights (in case Kirsten should try and come in) and got into bed with her. We lay there with the electric fire on, the radio playing a Bach concert very low, and not even making any attempt to make love. I said: ‘This is your first evening as my wife instead of Kirsten’s.’ She said there were a lot of difficulties ahead, and I said it didn’t matter if she really wanted to live with me. Then suddenly I realized I was on the point of saying: ‘If you don’t betray me as you betrayed Kirsten,’ and had to stop myself. I understand now what Cunningham meant about betrayal. When Diana was Kirsten’s wife, I didn’t give a damn about the bookmaker type, and when she slept with me, I felt pleased because I was making her unfaithful to two men. Now I feel she is mine, and immediately feel uncertain. But there’s no point in thinking too much about this.
So that is what has happened. Diana insisted on getting up and going to work this morning. She says she’ll work until the week-end, to draw her wage packet, but will give notice today. I tried to make her see that the miserable two or three pounds she’ll draw are unimportant, and that it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t bother to collect them. But years of half-starving have made her cautious, and she went off at half-past seven this morning, going downstairs in her stockinged feet in case Kirsten should recognize her step. And I am now left with the problem of what I intend to do. I wonder if Cunningham could persuade Kirsten to move out of his room? It is obviously impossible for Diana to move in here with Kirsten in the room below. On the other hand, if we could manage to avoid Kirsten for a few weeks, something might be done. . . .
Nov. 25th.
Things are, in fact, working out unexpectedly well. Cunningham has offered Kirsten a room in their place—they have an attic above Cunningham’s room. Kirsten has already given notice from the present room and started to move his things out. We had a tense moment last night when Kirsten knocked on my door after Diana and I had gone to bed. He had a message for me from Cunningham, so I had to let him in, and Diana had to rush into the bathroom in case Kirsten looked into the bedroom. The message was to tell me that an old associate of Cunningham’s is in town, and to ask me to go and meet him today. Kirsten had spent the evening with him, and been much impressed by him as a sincere and honest man.
Kirsten then went on to talk about the room that Cunningham had offered him, then about Diana (whom he presumes to have gone back to her bookmaker, since he hasn’t heard from her). He was evidently inclined to stay all night, but as Diana was sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the bath with no clothes on, I had to be fairly brusque, and tell him that I had a headache and wanted to get back to bed. At this moment, unfortunately, Diana managed to knock the plug into the bath. Kirsten looked startled, then smiled knowingly, said, ‘My apologies,’ and left. I immediately felt an utter swine. However, I want Diana so badly that I don’t let this worry me too much.
I’m amazed when I examine my feelings about Diana. In a quarrelsome mood, Gertrude once accused me of being incapable of any deep feeling for anyone. As far as Gertrude is concerned, this is true enough. I think that my feeling about Diana may be partly protective—she seems to have had so little out of life, and to deserve so much. And yet, ever since I’ve known Diana, I’ve had an instinct that told me to grab her, as if I instantly recognized someone I could live with and could spend a lifetime with. How far this is a real perception, I don’t know. It’s a fairly new experience for me.
Later: I went to see Cunningham, as he suggested, and was directed to phone his friend, who is called Tim Wedmore, at the Regent Palace Hotel. I did, and he immediately asked me if I could go and have lunch with him. I didn’t much want to: I’ve started to work on the Weir libretto, and wanted to spend the day on it; but he sounded so friendly that I agreed. He is on his way to California, flying tomorrow, so there wouldn’t be another opportunity.
He turned out to be a big, well-fed man in his fifties, with a craggy bald forehead, very pale blue eyes, and a sensuous mouth. He’s a Scot who went to New Zealand to farm sheep, and made a decent lot of money. During the war, when he was in the army, he read a book by Cunningham, and immediately wrote to him. The result was that he went to live with Cunningham immediately after the war on the ‘island’, and became a fervent disciple.
On my way to the hotel, I wondered about Cunningham’s motives in introducing me to Wedmore; I soon found out. Wedmore almost worships Cunningham; and since he’s a shrewd and intelligent man, his enthusiasm is contagious. We had lunch up in Wedmore’s room—he wanted to be able to talk without interruption. He began by saying that he had heard that I was a great writer, and would probably be able to make Cunningham’s work known to thousands of people. I modestly disclaimed all this, but it was obvious that Wedmore was determined to regard me as a friend and ally.
The story he told me while we ate was as startling as anything in the Varieties of Religious Experience. The trouble, Wedmore said, was that he was a man of strong feelings and instincts, quick-tempered, highly sexed, but with a background of Scotch Presbyterianism that gives him a naturally gloomy and mistrustful outlook on the world. As a sheep farmer, he read Plato and the Upanishads, and meditated on the problem of why God made the world with so much evil in it. He had a half-caste girl on his farm, with whom he had sexual relations when he was at home, but during the weeks when he was riding over distant parts of his farm, he admitted to a strong temptation to use the sheep to satisfy his desires. He was horrified by this streak of bestiality in him. He did not care for the half-caste girl, but found her physically exciting. On the other hand, he knew a schoolteacher who attracted him, and often thought of marrying her; but he was reasonably certain that she would not satisfy him physically, even if she would make an excellent wife in other ways. It was at this point that he read a book by Cunningham (called The Voice of Baphomet) in which Cunningham spoke about techniques for being able to see into one’s previous incarnations, and declared that no man can ever understand himself or be completely free from self-division unless he knows about past incarnations, and learns exactly how he came to develop his present characteristics. He wrote to Cunningham, mentioning that he was a fairly rich sheep farmer. The result was an irregular correspondence that led to an invitation to Cunningham’s island off the coast of Sardinia.
Wedmore said he was in a pretty bad way when he accepted the invitation. He had spent the last year of the war in a Japanese prison camp, and seen some pretty awful things. He felt a consuming hatred of the Japanese for some of the atrocities he had seen, and was obsessed by the idea that the whole Japanese race must be destroyed before we can hope for world peace. Yet his religious ideas made him feel that this thought was evil. So he was pitifully self-divided when Cunningham met him off the boat and arranged the trip out to the island.
At first, he was shocked by Cunningham’s farm. To begin with, Cunningham made no secret of having sexual relations with two young Indian boys who acted as servants, as well as with a skinny American girl. The walls of the house were covered with designs of erect phalluses, and marihuana cigarettes and dishes of cocaine lay around the place for anyone to take. Cunningham was engaged in magical researches which involved killing a cat, and hanging crucified toads on an inverted crucifix. At first, Wedmore was completely bewildered, and thought that he had fallen in with a madman. Soon after he arrived, more visitors came—various eccentrics of the international set who seemed to be out to throw off all restraint. Cunningham declared that his true disciples would be willing to prostitute their bodies t
o anyone who should ask; most of the guests promptly declared themselves his true disciples, and made this an excuse for a sexual orgy. Wedmore himself was attracted to a slim, quiet girl who had come as the companion of a Greek banker, and one afternoon he possessed her on the beach after they had been bathing. That evening at supper, heated by wine and drugs, some of the guests proceeded to have sex at the table, declaring that the pleasures of food and of love should be mixed. Then, to Wedmore’s horror, his ‘quiet, slim girl’ tore open his trousers, and proposed that they should perform various sexual acts on the table while the others ate. Wedmore rushed out of the room and went to the beach; he wanted to leave the island immediately, but could not find a boat.
Late that night he was sitting on the beach, shivering, when Cunningham and his mistress arrived. Cunningham came over to him, and told him that he now proposed to initiate him into some of the great secrets. Cunningham then explained to him that his trouble was simple: he had always been afraid of his subconscious mind, not realizing that it contains the dark mystery of his true self. Cunningham expounded his views for about five minutes, declaring that the conscious self is nothing more than the upper layer of the subconscious being. The conscious cannot have any will of its own, and it is impossible to be good or virtuous from purely conscious direction. The problem is to relax and allow the subconscious to encroach on the conscious, bringing its life-giving forces, and revealing its will. At the bottom of the subconscious, Cunningham said, is the meaning of all life, the purpose that drives us and grants us life. It must be encouraged to rise and express its will.