Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  (To write a new kind of stream of consciousness. Like a fugue. Certain thought motifs recurring at regular intervals—England, Dentist, God, X., Money, War, Novel, England, Dentist, God, etc. etc. Over this pattern play the more conscious, fugitive thoughts—the thoughts connected with immediate external stimuli. Maybe the whole thing would have to be written down in bars, like music. I would like to show thought as feeling, and feeling as thought, for the two are inseparable. I feel a twinge in the joints, and think of England. England is the twinge, the twinge is the thought. The roughness of stucco on a wall is the pimples on one’s face. The hardness of iron against your hand is the income tax. The bitterness of overcooked coffee is anxiety about money. Most of the time, people don’t really impinge on my consciousness as complete entities, or even complete images. There are moments when a friend is only apprehended as a pair of bowlegs, or a lisp, or as something which is cooking the dinner. At other moments, the people and things of the external world come much more sharply into focus and claim one’s whole attention. Characters, to be subjectively realistic, should emerge like this, and recede again. But how to do it?)

  This evening, Swami said how important he thinks worship and japam are. He said that this was why Amiya and Sudhira had been ten years in Ivar Avenue and not made more progress: they had neglected worship. He insisted specially on japam, because it leads naturally to meditation. He told me how he longs to go back to Benares, Vrindaban and Puri: the atmosphere there is so wonderful for meditation.

  August 3. It’s quite hot. I’m sitting in the garden, before our five o’clock reading from The Gospel of Ramakrishna (always a trial, because Madhabi is allowed to do it—as a concession to her vanity as an ex-actress—and she reads so badly). The boy who sells silk socks, Gaston Cabaret, has been round again. He was shell-shocked by the explosion of an ammunition dump, somewhere in this country. He has a long French face and nose, bony and ugly, but with such touchingly sweet childlike grey eyes. He is getting better, he says, but his hand still shakes so much that he can scarcely write.

  Today I lunched with Maria Rosa Oliver; Lincoln Kirstein’s friend from the Argentine. Her hand shakes too, from cigarette smoking. She is pretty and plump and immensely “intelligent,” and one can easily understand how she gets lovers, despite her paralyzed legs and wheelchair. I really admire and like her, and would like to become friends with her—but not at a thousand miles an hour, which is her speed. She’s leaving for Mexico very soon; and I’m invited to stay with her in the Argentine. We lunched at Ivar House, under the trees, and talked about Love, Lorca, Lincoln, Courage, National Characteristics, Death and Modern Poetry. I got the chore of collecting a bunch of modern writers to be translated into Spanish for her magazine Sur. When we said goodbye, she beckoned me to bend over and kiss her cheek. It was like being given a medal by royalty.

  The rocket bombs are very bad over England. Today came a letter from Gretl Eberhart, about the death of her friend Heinz Behrendt: after underground work in Germany, arrest, concentration camps, escape and endless adventures, he was drafted into the American army, and got killed in the Pacific. Such an utterly tragic life, from start to finish, and yet—what a triumph! What amazing courage, moral and physical!

  What have I done today, to express my solidarity with such people? Nothing. Only one hour of meditation. And only an hour and a half yesterday. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Or rather, I ought to do something. Just being ashamed is worthless, is even bad, because negative. Aren’t I reverting to the masochistic self-flagellation of my twenties? I’m so bored with myself in that role. The whole of this diary is becoming a bore. Let’s snap out of it. Come on, St. Augustine—amuse us. A little less about your sins.

  A very revealing dream. I was dishwashing. Asit had slipped out without helping (this is a standing grievance) through the window. I was so furious that I ran to the door of his room and banged on it—but my blows were feebler than the tapping of a moth. As I woke, I knew that this is what it is like when you’re dead. Gusts of rage and desire sweep you around, but you are impotent to vent them on the living.

  Just as the ocean has a different “feel” each day, so life has a different “feel.” Right now, the “water” is absolutely “dead.” Nothing succeeds. Even if I call someone on the phone, the number is usually busy. I know that, until this condition changes, Vernon won’t come or even write me a letter, and that I won’t be able to find a room for him, and that Aldous and I won’t sell our story. And yet, hoping against intuitive certainty, I keep making efforts. It’s very irritating, and a good exercise in nonattachment.

  August 6. Vernon sent a wire that there are “tiresome complications” in New York and he hopes to arrive about Thursday. I’m full of anxieties; can it be trouble with the draft, or merely delays in getting a reservation? I blow hot and cold. Sometimes, I almost wish he wouldn’t come. Then again I feel that I can’t possibly get along without him: I need him for the rest of my life. But, underneath this feeling, I know that I mustn’t need anybody. I have to turn always to the inward resource. There’s no other safety. People are only props—if you try to “use” them; and props can be knocked from under you.

  August 28. Well, I’m forty. How does it feel? Can’t feel a thing. I suppose the machine is gradually running down, but, right at this moment, it appears to be ticking away as well as ever. Maybe I get tired more easily—that’s all.

  Vernon arrived more than two weeks ago, on August 12. We had rather a strange meeting, at the Union Station, because there was an old man who travelled with him and was coming to the Coast to visit his son who was very sick in a San Diego naval hospital. The old man had another son in Los Angeles who would drive him down there, so we gave him a ride to his son’s address. I’d borrowed Yogi’s car. Over the old man’s head, our eyes kept meeting, and I was wondering if and how he’d changed. Certainly, he didn’t look much older than before. There were a few new lines in his face, that was all. But he seemed older, more grown-up, more relaxed. When he smiled, it wasn’t so self-conscious. We said goodbye to the old man and I asked, “What’s wrong with your boy?” And he told us, “Leukemia.”

  And then Vernon and I were alone, and, after all, there wasn’t much to say. All the speeches I’d rehearsed seemed unnecessary, and the long exchange of letters, with their hesitations and qualifications and cautions, were already out of date.

  The first week, Vernon stayed at Ivar Avenue, in Web’s room. Then he moved up the street, to a tiny apartment at 2050—which I’d taken for him with the idea of moving in there myself too, later. But meanwhile all plans have changed. Old Mr. Kellog has quite unexpectedly given the Vedanta Society a house and several acres of land, up above Montecito, near Santa Barbara. Swami has decided that this shall be the new center we’ve been looking for. For the present Amiya is to be in charge there, and other members of the family will take it in turns to stay. Swami will commute back and forth; and, after the war, the whole establishment will move up there and the society will build.

  Swami has invited Vernon to live at Montecito. There’s a studio he can have, apart from the main house. Mr. Kellog dabbles in painting. Vernon seems pleased with the idea, and wants to go as soon as possible. I don’t know what to think. I didn’t want him to plunge into the family so quickly—but then, I didn’t altogether realize how sold he is on Vedanta. And, after all, why hesitate? We have to try it. I’ll probably spend most of my time at Montecito, myself. It’s very beautiful. We were up there on the 20th. The house, which Kellog has named Ananda Bhavan (no half-hearted Hindu, he), is right up the mountain slope, on the edge of the national forest land. You look over the bay, with its islands: a much finer view than any around Santa Monica. It’s still quite wild country, with lots of deer and mountain lions and coyotes. We couldn’t have found a better place. The other houses in the neighborhood are all quite large estates; and the neighborhood has a settled, out-of-the-way atmosphere. It’s not expanding, like Los Angeles, and the war seems hardl
y to have touched it.

  It’s difficult to say if Vernon has really changed; only time will show that. But he certainly has a different attitude towards me, and he has certainly learnt a great deal. He is wonderful to talk to—really intelligent, not just repeating things out of books; and he speaks my language. He has exactly the right attitude towards Ivar Avenue; sees the funny side of it, and yet realizes the necessity of the funny side, and the significance behind it. I think he may be on the way to becoming a good painter. That I can’t judge. I only know that his being here seems to lighten up the whole place and every minute of the time. I no longer want to rush away to Santa Monica. And the X. situation has practically ceased to exist.

  He still hates Denny. That shocks me, in a way: it seems ungenerous, when the reason for it has disappeared. But probably he’ll get over it. The Beesleys seem to like him, and he’s really popular with the family already. Swami says, “Who could help loving him?” Amiya coos over him. Sarada is quite romantic about his looks. He wrestles with Web and teases Asit. Sudhira hasn’t met him yet. Peggy, I can see, is doubtful. Well she may be. She knows all our past history, and naturally she’ll have to be convinced.

  I spent part of my birthday up at Alto Cedro, without telling Peggy what day it was. But it slipped out, somehow, in the course of the conversation, and there was a dreadfully embarrassing scene—because Peggy was covered with shame, and dashed out to mobilize the boys, who brought in a half-eaten birthday cake with four candles, and some hastily improvised presents. All this took place under the sardonic blue eyes of Bill Kiskadden. He makes me feel about eighteen years old, and a crook at that.

  Yesterday, Vernon and I went up to the Beesleys’. Chris Wood was there, because, as he explained, his cook Josephine is busy writing a novel, so he had to come to Hollywood. Dodie and Alec have taken a great fancy to him. He seems to get nicer and nicer, as the years go by. The other day, he came to Ivar Avenue; and when he left, Swami exclaimed, “What a good man!”

  So now another attempt begins, to live this life the way it ought to be lived. There are, as usual, all sorts of obstacles in the way. The war in Europe may well end very soon, and I will have to go to England and see M. and Richard. But it’s no use worrying about difficulties. I have Swami. I have Vernon. I have this place. I have some experience behind me, and some acquired confidence. I’m still not too old. If I fail, I will have no alibi whatsoever. In my position, with all my advantages, it would be disgraceful, criminal, to fail.

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

  August 29. Last night, I had a date with Gottfried Reinhardt in the bar of the Vine Street Brown Derby. He is here now, still a sergeant in the army, making training films.

  Gottfried, as I expected, was late. I kept looking into the bar for him, and going back to the Satyr Bookshop next door to pass the time. Around ten o’clock I was about to give up and go home, when I was grabbed by an attractive girl, rather drunk, who yelled, “Here he is!” She was Gottfried’s wife. They’ve been married seven months. Nobody told me.

  Earlier in the evening, Mrs. Reinhardt had gone into the bar alone, looking for me. There was only one civilian—a character of gloomy and consumptive appearance—sitting there among the service men. She went up to him: “Are you Christopher Isherwood?”

  “Sure I am.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. Gottfried has told me so much about you.”

  “The hell with Gottfried.”

  Mrs. Reinhardt thought this a bit strange, but decided I must be one of these brutal, eccentric geniuses. The man then began pawing her leg. She was still trying desperately to be polite and make conversation when Gottfried appeared and signalled to her that this wasn’t Christopher at all. The man saw him, rose hastily, and disappeared into the toilet. Gottfried declared that he was still hiding there.

  He also was drunk, but looked younger and less gross. He kept smiling the shy fatuous smile of a husband apologizing for being in love with his wife. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he kept repeating. We drove wildly all over town looking for a restaurant, and ended up at La Rue. We parked very close to the side of a wall, up against some bushes. Gottfried had difficulty opening the door of the car. “This is a forest,” he said, “which can only be penetrated by half-Jews.” He mentioned Jews and half-Jews frequently throughout the evening. The Jewish problem seemed to be specially on his mind.

  I think his brother Wolfgang must have told him something about Ivar Avenue, because he kept skirting around the subject, half teasing, half embarrassed. “Tell me about Krishnamurti,” he demanded. “Has he read Voltaire? I want to know how he answers Voltaire.”

  He told me that his flirtatious Metro secretary, Frau Bach, died quite suddenly, of leukemia.

  It was nice, seeing him again. There is something very sweet and childlike and appealing about him. And he was so anxious that I should like his wife.

  A stupefyingly hot day. I sat under the acacia, on the front lawn, correcting the magazine proofs. Vernon came out of the temple to tell me that he’d had the best meditation of his whole life. It makes me so wonderfully happy, having him here.

  A great fire over in Canoga Park, this evening, fills the whole sky with purplish smoke. The sun is setting behind it, a dusky red ball. Ashes are falling out of the air, all over the leaves of the garden. I must go and do vespers.

  After supper, Vernon, Roger Spencer and I went round to look at Franz Dispecker’s paintings. It seems strange to find a Goya, a Van Dyck, a Rubens and a Fabriano hanging on the walls of a furnished apartment in the midst of Hollywood. Vernon talked so intelligently about them, and knew such a lot, that I felt very proud of him.

  August 31. At breakfast, Swami and Sister were discussing Ganna Walska,196 whom they lunched with the other day in Montecito. (She lives quite near Ananda Bhavan.) The girls were being a bit catty. One of them said scornfully, “I dare say she’s very attractive to men.” And Sister retorted, so sweetly, “Well, I liked her. And the things which attract men don’t usually attract an old lady.”

  An interview, at Columbia, with Doran and Blumenthal: Aldous and I had to see them about our story. Doran is a genial, slippery business ham—not unlike Bennett Cerf. He told us, “There’s nothing more cowardly in the world than a million dollars.” In other words, he won’t risk buying us. Blumenthal, who is now a producer, is the same man who used to live in the house Vernon and I rented on Harratt Street. He lectured Aldous and myself sententiously on the world’s need for faith. “Hollywood has been waiting ten years for a second Miracle Man.” As we left the office, Aldous said, “He’s almost too spiritual, don’t you think?”

  Later, we lunched at the Knickerbocker. Aldous talked very well about Christianity and Marxism. He said, “Whenever a movement has its objectives within time, it always resorts to violence.” But he thinks that some of the latest Marxist philosophers leave a door open to mysticism when they say that, although they only believe in matter, the possibilities of matter are unlimited.

  In the garden, this afternoon, Swami told me to beware of Sudhira’s tongue: one mustn’t confide in her. Apparently, she gossiped about me and X. to some of the girls, Amiya particularly, and even invented some fantastic lies. I don’t mind for myself, but I do mind for Vernon: if he knew that this kind of thing goes on here, it would make him feel terribly insecure. Also, I must admit that it undermines some of my feeling for Sudhira. Because I can’t help wondering if she deliberately played up the cancer scare in order to exploit my feelings. Swami is going to give her a good talking to when she returns.

  September 5. Sudhira returned and was talked to. She and I haven’t discussed it, and now maybe we won’t. I can see that she’s terribly ashamed of herself. We are on very good terms otherwise. And there is really nothing very much to be said.

  September 9. The day before yesterday, Vernon had a visit from two of his old friends—Richard Nibley (
who used to teach Vernon the violin) and his wife. He’s in the army now. He brought records of some of his own compositions for violin and piano. He said of one of them, “This is kind of a moody deal.” Vernon loves them both, and I can see why: they’re so simple and friendly. Vernon says of himself, “I’m a sucker for gemütlichkeit.197” And he’s had so little of it. That’s one of the good things in his being here: he’s able to be part of a family.

  Yesterday evening, we had supper together in Beverly Hills, and he said how unbelievable all this is—in less than a month, we’ve built up an entirely new relationship, we’re like two different people. “And yet,” he added, “anyone who heard us talking might think we were just the same.” That’s true, too. We still squabble; and Vernon still sulks. As, for instance, while we were washing dishes after breakfast, this morning. But that doesn’t make me angry any more: he will get over it, if I handle things the right way. At present, he needs so much reassurance, so much gentleness. But the gentleness must always have a hard surface—quite casual, friendly, unsticky, without strings attached. I am gradually learning the right tone of voice.

  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 says that when I go up to Ananda Bhavan 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.”

  “Once thrown off its balance, the heart is no longer its own master”—this is from St. François de Sales’s Introduction to the Devout Life. The word “balance” is very significant, as far as I’m concerned. Again and again, the image of the tightrope walker suggests itself to me. As long as you remain alert, every danger can be avoided easily, by the slightest kind of adjustment—a mere movement of the hands and arms, as it were. But once you lose your balance and begin to fall, there’s nothing to be done but try to land on your feet, or roll over like a paratrooper, to avoid breaking something.