March 11. Speed came to lunch with me at the studio today—just back from Philadelphia. Perle Mesta’s party had more gate crashers than guests. He didn’t like Tennessee’s play. Tennessee had been very drunk, he said, and screamed at him because he couldn’t think of anything to praise in it. Speed also says he is seriously thinking of getting rid of Joshua Logan114 as director of his play and switching to Kazan, if it can be arranged. He was very manic and violent. “I’d cut my own mother’s throat if she got in the way of my work. When it comes to my work, I’m absolutely cold. It’s the only way to be.”
Driving back from the ranch last night, Don said he had never before understood how nice it would be to bury oneself in the country. We also discussed the impossibility of dealing with liars—with reference to Speed. I told Don about the Swiss scientist who had snipped off a bit of ectoplasm and kept it alive—and about the clairvoyant experience in which two women relived the Dieppe Raid. He said this made him feel frightened. I reminded him that he is now protected by Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna has touched him.
The almost terrifying mystery of happiness with another human being! It scares me, and so I keep fearing its end, and dwelling on the danger of its ending. I would do much better to try to understand it and learn something from it. Why are Don and I so happy right now? Why isn’t everybody?
March 15. Not feeling good. My operation scar is sensitive, and my belly is swollen up, apparently with gas which I can’t get rid of. I’m full of dull anxieties.
Today Swamis Prabhavananda and Vandanananda, and Krishna and Don came to lunch. Swami Vandanananda is really movie struck, but ashamed to admit it in front of Prabhavananda.
Have just told Jack Goodman of Simon and Schuster that I want to switch to them.
Ploughing along through Jean-Christophe with difficulty. It’s hard to rewrite. Also my novel—but there I feel I really have made a good start.
Yesterday, Vance Breese called and told me a friend of his was leaving for Tahiti tomorrow to deliver a flying boat to the governor. He would gladly have taken Don and me along! I went into quite a tailspin—but of course it was impossible at such short notice.
Gloomy thoughts of old age and/or death. Answer: japam. Again and again today I’ve remembered this and then lapsed back into tamasic anxiety—and forgotten the japam.
Gave a ride to a Chilean who is studying at UCLA. He had the beautiful name of Duilio Ottonini.
They’ve been shooting this building for The Three Faces of Eve disguised as “The Dixie Motel.” At lunch today, they filled my office with huge lights. Afterwards, the walls were quite hot.
March 18. Still feeling lousy and worried about myself. I have a dull headache. My scar is sore. I feel sleepy and rotten. I do wish I could snap out of this state.
Yesterday we saw Terence Rattigan and a boy named Kenley Saville whom I used to know slightly in 1948. Terry is really very nice. But it does seem amazing to me that he, who seems in every way such a darling of success, should have settled for such a squalid, miserable and fundamentally boring private life. Drinking is so awful! It is a bog which holds you and everybody you know, so that relationships become just that much harder to get out of.
I’m quite interested in my novel—so I’ll get on with that.
March 21. Saw Dr. Lichtenstein again yesterday evening. He assures me that my scar is healing normally. Many small nerves are cut through when the flesh is cut, and these are bound to hurt for a while. So I should just ignore the whole thing—and I will try to.
Last night we went to a goodbye party for Terence Rattigan, given by Hecht-Hill-Lancaster—more specifically by Hill, who is having an affair with Rita Hayworth. Because of this affair, apparently, Hayworth has been forced on to poor Terry as one of the stars in the movie version of his Separate Tables. She is somewhat spectral, now, but still, in a grim way, beautiful. Judy Garland looked like a cook, in a small white glittering round pie-shaped hat and a black dress that didn’t fasten behind, because she’s so fat, and that looked as if it might have come from the Goodwill. Lenore Cotten talked and talked and the two coons from Trinidad sang, while one of them scraped a gourd with a nail until all but the strongest nerves were ready to snap. Cedric Hardwicke’s young wife insisted on sharing my chair, as she told me that Hardwicke was the kindest of husbands but that she has more fun when he’s away.
The only positive result of the party for us was that Lenore Cotten invited us to lunch, and promises to get us together with Jennifer Jones.115 We are considering “training” Lenore as “our” hostess and rewarding her by bringing her an occasional celebrity from “our” world.
Reread the first eight pages of my revised novel this morning. Not bad.
March 25. Black depression. Have just lost my wig with Mr. Coates, the upholsterer, because without one word of apology he coolly announced that the material for our cushions has been found defective and so we would have to wait.
But I’m also deeply upset and disturbed about the situation with Don.116 He couldn’t possibly be sweeter and gentler in the way he takes this; but it is a terrible obstacle, nevertheless, and many—most—relationships don’t survive it, or at least only outwardly. I realize that we can only work through it by the greatest patience and love, and I know myself well enough to know that this will be almost too much for me to manage. Perhaps too much. I simply do not know. I dread what’s coming.
March 28. Have just talked to Carter on the phone. He still thinks—and the doctor thinks—that Johnnie won’t really ever get better. He is greatly concerned because Johnnie’s jealous resentment against Dick Foote is coming up to the surface. Here the three of them are—bound together as long as Johnnie lives—and there’s this friction. Carter said, “I have to be a little selfish,” and, “Johnnie’s attitude could very easily turn into tyranny.” All this has the makings of a truly hideous tragedy.
As for our problem—Don’s and mine—it isn’t solved and yet it seems temporarily much less acute, because we had a long talk about it at the beginning of the week. Don is really incredible, especially when you consider his age: he has so much understanding. What I must learn is to be absolutely frank with him always, and to be certain that I have made my own feelings quite clear.
Ivan Moffat is in a sad state because Caroline prefers to stay in New York. If she really loved him, he says, she’d stay here with him no matter how much she hated the place. He’s right, I fear.
April 2. Much to report, but nothing of any great importance.
On Friday we started our program of giving one-a-week suppers. Miss Burns who gives me my hormone shots has a cook who has a sister, Dorothy Miller, an enormous Negress, frowning faced but quite good-natured, who is cooking them for us. The Huxleys came, and the Adrians,117 as well as Thom Gunn and his friend, Mike Kitay, who were down for the week from San Francisco—or rather Stanford, where Thom teaches and Mike studies. The party was quite a success. Aldous looked tired and seemed sleepy but Janet and Laura were bright as queen bees. Adrian giggled and made bad puns. And Thom and Mike were thrilled to meet Aldous, and Dorothy was thrilled to cook for Janet.
Then on Saturday a fantastically boring party at Ray Ohge’s—we were invited for 7:00. There weren’t even any hors d’oeuvres till 9:45. Supper was to have been at midnight, but we left. It seems incredible that Ray could have persuaded all these well-to-do people to stick around through all those hours. And oh, how messy drinking is!
High winds the last two days—as violent as I’ve ever known them here.
April 3. Dissatisfied with myself. The novel is at a standstill—and why? Because I have gotten into this hair-splitting perfectionistic mood in which I piddle for weeks over a few pages. I must realize that this is just another draft, and get the hell on with it.
I don’t bring my weight down because I’m greedy. I buy bags of marshmallows and guzzle them in the evenings when Don isn’t home.
I’m getting bored with Jean-Christophe. It crawls along. I lack invention, f
eel lazy and sleepy.
I’m also making heavy weather with the foreword to All the Conspirators.118 After this I must absolutely decline all journalistic jobs. They cost me too much trouble.
A boy named Jim Sherwood came to see me today. He is twenty, fair haired, blue eyed, with the humorless handsome intelligence of a Vernon. He is working at Paramount. Claims he has written seventeen (or seven?) novels, all unpublished, has a rich father he has quarrelled with, has worked as a clown in a circus, been a newspaper man. His latest novel is called The Charliquinade. He is so impressive that you wonder if he’ll become president.119
Impressive in another way is Charles O. Locke—a chunky white-haired man who has the office next to mine. He has written a really beautiful book, The Hell-Bent Kid. He is terribly worried that he won’t be able to master the technique of movie writing. I have told him that there isn’t any. Today he sends me a charming note of gratitude.
Saw Swami tonight. He’s better. He told me the Swami in Paris died a few days ago, and he doesn’t trust the Swami’s assistant; thinks he’s lustful.
April 6. Yesterday, Harry Brown brought Robert (“Cal”) Lowell, the poet, to lunch. Harry doesn’t drink at all. He looked well but a trifle shrunk, as people do who have lost a whiskey bloat. He left for New York last night to see this girl, June de Baum, whom he hopes to make change her mind and marry him. Probably she hinted she’d do so if he gave up drink. Then, with or without June, he plans to go down to Haiti.
After lunch, at the Luau, we went on the set of Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? Jayne Mansfield was playing a scene in which she lies on a table and is massaged. As she lay down, she opened her robe and showed her breasts completely—not quickly and coquettishly, but quite slowly, while she was waiting for a scarf to bind around them. This is in the presence of at least forty people, including male and female visitors! Cal Lowell fairly drooled; and Harry, who was fussing about time, had to drag him away from the set.
It was our Dorothy cooking night. We invited Gerald, the Stravinskys and Bob Craft. Gerald arrived on time and at once began talking mescaline which is becoming more and more irritating as he refuses to give us any. The Stravinskys were nearly three quarters of an hour late—they hadn’t been able to find the way—and Bob Craft was sick with a terrible headache in the car, with the shakes, and believing himself sickening for polio or starting a nervous breakdown. Igor and Vera were both greatly upset over this—he more than she—one sees how deeply they love him. Vera wanted to know didn’t we have some Miltown or anything similar? So Don went down to the Masselinks and got some Equanil from Jo. Quite soon, Bob had apparently recovered and was with us at the table, laughing and eating stuffed chicken.
Igor, in his seventy-fifth year, looks good but complains of insomnia. He asked Gerald how to meditate, saying that he might as well do this while he was lying awake. Igor said, “I am not sure I am creative, only inventive.” He said, “All the time I am saying to myself—yes, I am thinking, but am I thinking well?” He was so sweet and touching.
Dorothy had never heard of the Stravinskys. She thought she recognized Igor as a Jewish comic on the Molly Goldberg show!120
Don thoroughly enjoyed the evening, he says—much more so than last week. So did I, except that I have an upset stomach.
A grey chilly day. Am still stuck in my foreword to All the Conspirators. I must learn to avoid these short chores. They’re always the worst.
April 10. Stomach symptoms continue, after a letup yesterday. They are like ones I’ve had before—in the pyloric region; discomfort and an acute sense of anxiety. I’m worried about myself. I feel very much bogged down in sickness, unable to get my vitality back. And yet I don’t want to go through all the fuss of X rays again. It’s too tedious.
Work rises in mountains before me. At present, I’m eager to see if I can’t altogether avoid writing a travel book and travel articles, and just do the Ramakrishna book. Random House can then be gotten rid of, without involving myself in all manner of other work.
Now I must make a stand—stop worrying—get organized.
Later. I’ve just been up to Vedanta Place. Swami told me that he dreamt he was handing out copies of my book on Ramakrishna to crowds of people. And he was saying, “Chris’s book!” I was present too.
This dream makes me feel very happy—as if all would be well, after all. Swami said, “It will be a turning point in the growth of the society.”
And now for the first time I dimly get a new conception of the book. I want to work Ramakrishna’s life in with some autobiographical material—telling something about the way in which I, myself, got to know of Ramakrishna but without too many personal details and without indiscretion. I mentioned this to Swami this evening. He said, “However you write it will be all right.”
I felt his love very strongly. And I felt also a great warmth from Vandanananda, which is good.
Great love also between me and Jessie Marmorston, whom I saw this evening, briefly. She gave me some pills which she hopes will fix my stomach. If not, she’ll examine it on Friday.
Her electric chair for going up and downstairs, to save her heart.
April 12. Terrible persecutions, yesterday and today, by men who are painting the writers’ building. They sing, shout to each other. And if one complains one feels somehow bad, out of touch with the big simple life of the big simple masses.
Am getting seriously worried about my stomach. It doesn’t let up. Not really painful but menacing, full of dread. And oh, how sick I am of medical examinations! I dread more X rays and barium meals.
Jessie has started giving me something in my shots which is supposed to increase my libido! Got the first yesterday. All quiet down there so far!
April 14. Just a year since I started this volume of my journal. Not a bad year; at least I have gotten something accomplished. In many ways a very happy year with Don. The chief snag has been my poor health.
That continues. Today my stomach is vaguely wretched, despite the temporary relief I get from taking Gelusil. I’m worried about myself. Is something organically wrong? Cancer? An ulcer? More liver trouble? I have a sharp pain in my right side, now—that’s something brand-new since yesterday.
The wisteria vine is beginning to spill its blossom. It’s swarming with fat black-brown bees. The yellow roses are starting to come out on the wall. In fact, the house is at its showiest—the way we first saw it before buying it last year.
I’m at present absolutely stuck fast in Jean-Christophe. I cannot see how to lick the problem of handling Olivier’s death.
I have resolved to restart the novel, rewriting it as quickly as possible, without hesitations.
I think I might be able to begin the Ramakrishna book, before I leave for India.
Don and I rather decided yesterday not to go to the Orient by way of Australia. Don doesn’t relish the long uneventful boat trip. We will go by boat or plane direct to Hong Kong, say, and then on, via Siam, etc.
Don said something very good yesterday—I wish I could remember it verbatim. It was an expression of dismay at the way in which “all the little years suddenly add up, and that’s what a person’s life means.” He has his holiday now from Chouinard, and is repainting the lamps in the alcove and revarnishing our sundeck.
On Friday night we had Anne Baxter and Perle Mesta to supper with Speed and Paul. Baxter was lively and most anxious to be pleasant—but quite embarrassingly artificial. She chattered without ceasing. Whenever something unflattering was said about another actress, she looked pained. I said how someone had remarked you could never recognize Eleanor Parker from one day to another, and Baxter agreed eagerly, wincing with pain as she did so: “Yes—why is that?” As for Mesta, she ate heartily of the pot roast, and spent most of the evening watching Don’s face—the way old people watch the faces of the young—to get vitality out of them. They watch without the least attempt to participate in the conversation, like viewers of TV. One feels a kind of grim good nature in her,
however.
April 19. My indigestion bothers me again, after a respite.
Don said this morning, “Drive carefully—the life you are living may be your own.”
While he had his holiday this week, he has beautifully repainted the lamps and painted the drawers of the bedroom bureau in various colors.
He says: “I don’t care to be alone for long, because I don’t like myself very much.”
He says: “I’m two cats, really. One of them is a little flighty white one that likes to lie on a cushion and have a lot of toms around. The other is a big mean black one with very sharp claws. The black one keeps the white one in order. It’s very strict.”
Swami, whom we saw last night, liked Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison (!)121
Don writes in his journal, almost every night, in bed.
I have nearly finished Aldous’s Texts and Pretexts. I read it only on the toilet, here at the studio.
April 21. On Easter Sunday last year, I began the first draft of my novel.
Today I started working on the rewrite more intensively, and I now want to try to finish this rewrite before we leave for the Orient.
Woke this morning, as so often nowadays, feeling that I’m old and sick—definitely much older and sicker than a year ago. But a good long walk with Don and Jo, along the beach as far as the Norma Shearer house and then back up the cliff stairs and through the Palisades Park has made me feel so much better that I suspect I merely needed exercise.
The pigeon lady in the park and her enemy, the man who feeds the pigeons hard uncooked rice, which will kill them. She wants to become a game warden. Right now, she has no money at all and has to sleep on a friend’s porch. She has poison-oak poisoning, carried by the pigeons.
April 22. Charley Locke has written a poem to his wife Virginia. Here is the second stanza:
I do not love enough in all this time
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