Later. … Well, we drove out to the retreat, which is quite a large property, about ten miles outside the city: a birch forest, with a group of wooden houses, very Scandinavian. The Swamis gathered, in their yellow robes, at the spot where the foundation stone was to be laid. It started to drizzle. Ashokananda, with his malicious smile, told Vishwananda to go and pray for the rain to stop. Vishwananda waddled off by himself among the trees. The rain stopped. The ceremony began. The drizzle started again. “Go and pray some more,” said Ashokananda. Vishwananda sighed: “The second time is more difficult.” But he went off obediently, nevertheless—only to return, an instant later, gasping and trotting: he had disturbed a nest of wild bees. The rain continued, and we finished the ceremony under umbrellas. I left early with Mrs. Thom, who had to see Rich off at the station—because I wanted to avoid the mass picnic of devotees. Ate too much salmon loaf.
This evening, a member of Devatmananda’s congregation drove us in his truck to visit his little home in the country. He raises begonias and tomatoes chemically, in a solution of Epsom salts. The house is built of firwood, with compressed sugarcane walls. A red brick dust path leads to a lily pond which leaks. Fairy lights are strung around in the trees. The awful squalor of small pinewoods: they are only fit for the burial of murdered corpses. Ashokananda earnestly recommended a certain kind of rhododendron: I’ve never seen him so passionate before.
The old lady at the puja who offered to pay for my training as a monk, because, “You boys are doing such splendid work.”
Mrs. Soulé, the singer, from San Francisco. Her greatest experience was singing at Glacier Point, Yosemite. She had to pitch her voice right across the valley, and make it echo back from Half Dome rock.
October 15. I got back to Ivar Avenue yesterday, after spending a night as Swami Vividishananda’s guest at the center in Seattle.
Vividishananda has a female disciple named Omala (I don’t know here real name) who came down with him to stay in Portland. She is a silly, pudding-faced girl with an affected voice and a coarse white skin: a real murderee type. At Portland, Omala had to sleep upstairs, on the third floor, which is attics and little bedrooms, probably intended for servants. Before the place was taken over by the Vedanta Society, it was used as a rooming house, and two of the occupants had been allowed to go on living there, until they could find other quarters. One of them was an old woman—a nurse, I think—and her room was next to Omala’s. She was perfectly harmless, but a little crazy, and she had a queer, witchlike appearance. Omala was terrified of her.
The night before we left for Seattle, Omala wakened me around 2 a.m. by banging on my door. She was whimpering with fright. She told me that the old woman was doing something “dreadful” in her room. She’d been tapping on Omala’s wall, and seemed to be dragging chains around the floor. Omala had decided she must be some kind of supernatural being: a kind of were wolf or vampire. “I’m not sure she’s—really—alive.” She refused to go back to her room unless I’d come with her to find out what was the matter. I was sleepy and cross. “Don’t you know this house has been dedicated to Ramakrishna?” I told her, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. How can there be any spooks here?” Just the same, I felt slightly uncomfortable, going up the stairs in the dark: the old house is so creaky and creepy. But there wasn’t a sound to be heard from the nurse’s room, and Omala finally went back to bed. In the morning, Devatmananda confessed that he had tapped on Omala’s wall himself to frighten her, because she was so silly. The old woman wasn’t even at home at the time.
Ashokananda came up with us to Seattle. As soon as we crossed the state line, he started bullying Vividishananda, complaining and holding him responsible because there wasn’t a dining car on the train. But Vividishananda merely smiled.
He lives in a smallish house, with a boy named Eli Morozzi, who is a musician, just gotten out of the army. Eli is deadly serious, attentive and loyal. He is exactly the right kind of disciple for Vividishananda. They are a real guru-chela181 pair. Eli told me that they go for a walk every day, through the park. “But we shan’t be able to do that when summer comes,” he added, “because girls lie around in swimming suits.”
Seattle smells of the North, which is the same all over. This might just as well be the north of Scotland. The clear, rainy light, the cold waterways and the little wooded islands. A city of small boats, like Copenhagen.
Oh God, I’m glad I don’t live at any of the other centers! Actually, I couldn’t. Vividishananda is the best. Life with him would be dry but nourishing, like a ship’s biscuit. But I would hasten to get TB and wither away and die. I couldn’t endure Devatmananda’s boy-scout camp; his irritating bossiness. Ashokananda I would fight to the death: he’s a tyrant with a spiteful tongue who despises his slaves. As for Vishwananda, I’d probably corrupt him utterly: I’m sure, with a little encouragement, he’d take to drink. Prabhavananda is the only one of them who’s really civilized, really tolerant; the only one who really understands the West.
November 19. A lot of time gone by, but little news. My position is exactly the same. The shrine is always with us. As long as some contact is maintained, all is simple and possible. As soon as contact is broken, all is horrible, difficult, tense, confused. To be a monk and to be a writer are the same, there’s no clash of purposes. Dedicate everything to Him. Don’t strain. Don’t loll. Don’t bother about love: that will come of itself, when the obstacles are removed. Don’t be indecently indiscreet about all this, either. Guard it for yourself, like bedroom secrets. Times will come for you to tell about it, to the right person, at the right moment, not boasting. You’ll know when.
That small voice which sometimes says, so humbly and yet with such entire assurance: “Admit—isn’t it much nicer when we’re alone together, like this? Why not be honest? You know you like me best.”
There’s been a lot more trouble with sex. Two more incidents, even: which I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed. But I won’t let this throw me, or indulge in orgies of confession and remorse. Keep to the positive acts. Fill your life with them. That’s what really counts. The other day, Swami said to me: “Do you know what purity is, Chris? Purity is telling the truth.”
The Beesleys have a new home, up above Benedict Canyon, with a big patio, a pool, and a wide view over the coast. I keep seeing them—on Sundays, mostly. I would rather be with them than anybody, right now, because there is absolutely no clash, no tension: we meet in a delightful, neutral area of talk about books and plays and England and Europe. I can even talk to them very frankly about Vedanta—though I’m careful not to say much about our domestic problems at Ivar Avenue. When I’m with them, I feel rather like a soldier on leave. And that’s how they treat me. I’m entertained, well fed, encouraged, made comfortable—and never unduly cross-examined or reminded of my army life.
Two soldiers are passing the temple. One of them looks at it and exclaims “Boy! The guy who built that thing sure had a screwy wife!”
November 22. Peggy has been coming here a lot, helping us revise our translation of the Gita. Her criticism is enormously valuable, but she keeps getting in Swami’s hair—pointing out, in her archly playful way, that the text is full of contradictions. This makes him very mad. Today, we had a really historic showdown. After much hesitation, Peggy confessed that she thinks our version really isn’t much better than any of the others. It’s dull and it’s clumsy and it reeks of Sanskrit. What’s more, she’s already talked to Aldous (who’s seen some of it) and he agrees. It was an awful moment, because, once she’d said it, it was only too obvious. I felt a wave of depression sweep over me—and Swami, seeing how I felt, suddenly turned very small and grey and shrivelled, a bird on a winter bough. And then—it was really amazing—I saw, in a flash, what was wrong. I went to my room with the manuscript. Our version began:
Oh changeless Krishna, drive my chariot between the two armies who are eager for battle, that I may see those whom I shall have to fight in this coming war. I wish to see the
men who have assembled here, taking the side of the enemy in order to please the evil-minded son of Dhritarashtra.
In about half an hour, I had turned this into:
Krishna the changeless,
Halt my chariot
There where the warriors,
Bold for the battle,
Face their foemen.
Between the armies
There let me see them,
The men I must fight with,
Gathered together
Now at the bidding
Of him their leader,
Blind Dhritarashtra’s
Evil offspring:
Such are my foes
In the war that is coming. …
I brought this back and showed it to Swami and Peggy, and they were both very excited. I’m excited myself—because it opens up all sorts of possibilities. I now realize how horribly bored I was with the old translation. I don’t see my way clearly, yet, but obviously this method can be applied throughout the book. There should be several kinds of verse, including, maybe, some hexameters; and I think I can vary the prose style too. We are going to Aldous this evening, to discuss the whole thing with him.
December 9. Since our decision, the revised Gita has been going ahead as if by magic. I’ve never worked so hard. The whole thing seems to be already in my head: it’s as though I’d been secretly assembling it there, like an invading army, all these months. Unfortunately—perhaps due to the strain and excitement—I’ve started smoking again, more than ever. At first it made me sick to my stomach, but I kept right at it.
Just back from seeing Robert Medley downtown. He’s visiting here for a few days on a mission. He’s a major in the British army, stationed in Cairo. He did a lot of important camouflage work in the African campaign. We went to see a movie called Sahara, because Robert wanted to know if they’d gotten the details accurate. They hadn’t. At one point, Bogart and his friends are cut off in a small village. They’re lost, and there’s no water, and no way out. “What utter rot!” exclaimed Robert, in his penetrating British voice: “I drove through there myself, only three months ago. There’s an excellent motor road, and they have three wells.” We left before the end—much to my relief. Several people, preferring Bogart to the truth, were getting bored with us.
On the whole, Robert has had a “good war”: he feels justifiably pleased with himself and his achievements. I sensed a little criticism, at first, but, for some reason, he was entirely reassured when I told him that I’d actually registered as a conscientious objector. That apparently made all the difference. Nevertheless, there was a gulf between us, and I think it would have existed just as much if I’d been living over here for four years of peacetime. I realized, as I seldom do, how Americanized, in some ways, I’ve become. Robert’s tone is already alien to me. Americans call it superior, but it’s not exactly that. It’s simply older and wearier: a kind of shadow falls. This weariness is extremely attractive, and also exasperating, because, without meaning to, it necessarily implies wisdom; and, of course, the British aren’t wiser than the Americans or vice versa: their wisdom is merely of another kind. We parted very politely but with a certain relief. No doubt, if circumstances arose, we could be friends again, but on a different basis.
December 21. Amiya, talking of Christmas preparations, said, “Well—I shall just cook a little turkey and offer it to Christ, that’s all.” So now I’ve composed a Christmas hymn (to the tune of “John Brown’s Body”):
I cooked a little turkey and I offered it to Christ,
The money that I paid for it was gladly sacrificed,
I flavored it so nicely, it was beautifully spiced—
But Christ had just had lunch.
Chorus: He’d had lunch with Allan Hunter,
He’d had lunch with Allan Hunter,
He’d had lunch with Allan Hunter,
Where they gave him soya beans.
Jesus wasn’t hungry, but he bashfully confessed
That he liked a nice young turkey and he’d take a bit of breast.
Soon he’d got the legs off, and gobbled up the rest—
Although he’d just had lunch.
Although he’d had lunch with Allan Hunter, etc. …
Where they gave him gluten steak.
When Our Lord had finished, he wiped his lips and sighed
“For God’s sake don’t tell the Hunters, or they’ll be horrified,
But a fellow gets an appetite when he’s been crucified—
He needs a second lunch.”
Especially when he’s lunched with Allan Hunter, etc. …
Where they give you cashew nuts.
So listen, all you Christians, and follow my advice:
Let Buddha have the vegetables, let Krishna keep the rice,
But when Jesus comes to visit you, just fix him something nice,
And perhaps he’ll stay for lunch.
Even though he’s had lunch with Allan Hunter,
Even though he’s had lunch with Allan Hunter,
Even though he’s had lunch with Allan Hunter,
Because he HATES those SOYA BEANS!
1944
January 3. Swami, George, Sarada, Yogini, Doris, Franz and I went to see The Song of Bernadette.182 On the whole, Swami approved of it. He liked the deathbed scene, and the vision of the Lady, because, he told us, visions usually appear in the corner of a room, and that’s what happens here. Needless to say, he was convinced that the roses on the Lady’s feet were really lotuses. He is extraordinarily obstinate on this point. As for me, I had a real good cry, from about reel two onwards, and greatly enjoyed myself.
I’ve just translated this, from Hölderlin:
Where are you? Drunken, the spirit grows dark in me
With all your delight. For, listening
Lately, I heard in what golden harmonies
The boy played, the enchanting sun god,
On heaven’s harp his hymn to the evening,
Echoing back from the woods and the hills around.
Far from us now, to more faithful worshippers,
His pious peoples, he has departed.183
January 5. Madhabi went to hospital yesterday for an emergency appendicitis operation, taking Sudhira with her, as a private nurse. Sudhira in uniform is a different person, radiant with happiness. She smells the breeze of freedom. Had supper with Dick LaPan, the boxer. He’s a nice, gentle, intelligent boy, but agonizingly unsure of himself. The mixed irritation and vanity of being treated as an oracle. Madhabi was operated today, quite successfully.
January 7. Aldous wanted someone to type the manuscript of his novel, Time Must Have a Stop. So I took him to Mrs. Herbold, who is excellent. As we approached the house, Aldous became slightly uneasy. “I don’t quite know what she’ll make of it,” he said. “It’s a curiously trivial story, told in great detail, with a certain amount of squalor.” Mrs. Herbold was very businesslike. She insisted on reading out a passage in Aldous’s handwriting, to see if she would be able to decipher it. Sure enough, she hit the “squalor” right at its worst. Mrs. Herbold didn’t falter, though maybe she swallowed, very very quickly. I giggled. Aldous looked immensely nonattached; a dozen light years away from us, and it. On our way home, he remarked, “Oh well—I dare say she’s quite a gay old thing, really.”
January 10. Madhabi back from hospital. Peggy wants me to go up to Alto Cedro and look after the boys while she’s away. Ben has been suddenly found to be suffering from some mild kind of arthritis. Nothing serious, but he must wear a brace on his back for six months.
January 13. Yesterday, Swami gave a lecture on Vedanta to a Young Methodists’ club at UCLA. He was disgusted by the students’ behavior: the girls sat on the boys’ laps throughout.
With Denny to the Red Cross blood bank. The nurse called us sissies, because we wanted to lie side by side, in order to go on talking.
Sarada has become a Song of Bernadette addict. Whenever anybody wants to see it, she goes along with t
hem.
January 14. With Swami out land shopping for the new center. A realtor showed us a marvellous property right up in the hills above Brentwood, with a view over Santa Monica Bay and away across the city to Mount Wilson and Baldy. But it would cost hundreds of thousands to develop. No road, even.
Supper with the Huxleys. Matthew showed us his color photographs of the desert. They’re very remarkable: some like Corots, others as beautiful as Japanese prints. Two awful pictures of me, taken while I was living at Peggy’s, all head and no shoulders, with a pot belly. Maria said, “You know, Christopher, there’s something we’ve wanted to tell you for two years—I think we know you well enough now—what do you think, Aldous? Can we tell him? We can—can’t we? You see, Christopher, you have a very long neck—and you should never wear a shirt without a collar.”
January 31. Sudhira has been up at Alto Cedro, minding the house while Peggy is away. (I didn’t go myself, because I wanted to be in constant contact with Swami during the Gita revision. It’ll be finished tomorrow.) Today, Sudhira called me to say that she’s had a letter from Peggy. Peggy and Bill have shown the X rays of Ben’s back to several specialists in the East, and it has now been decided that his arthritis is very serious indeed. It’s a kind called Marie-Strümpell: three to five years of gradually increasing stiffness, with bouts of pain; and then you have a stiff back for life. X-ray treatment sometimes arrests it, but there’s not very much hope.
Later in the day, Ben and Sudhira came down here, because Sudhira wanted to use Kolisch’s quartz lamp on Ben’s acne. Ben knows nothing, yet. I could scarcely bear to be with him, and laugh and talk as though nothing were the matter. It made me feel quite sick.
Sudhira tells me that she volunteered to go back to nursing, while she was at the hospital with Madhabi. But now she says she’ll stay on here another year, if I’ll promise to stay too.
February 7. Here I am down at Llano, staying with the Huxleys. I’ll go back tomorrow.
On the 2nd, I took Amiya out to a restaurant for her birthday treat. She drank three Bacardis and got the giggles. On the 5th, Tommy Viertel was drafted into the army, and Peter Viertel, back in this country to go to officers’ school, was married to a very attractive girl named Virginia, who used to be the wife of Budd (What Makes Sammy Run?) Schulberg.
Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1 Page 53