We’re considering buying a house on the beach near Jerry.
Chris Wood called today to say he finds “Mr. Lancaster” ghostly.
June 6. He called again today to say that he likes it a lot better on rereading. And Simon and Schuster like it well enough to offer a contract. So things look brighter, and now I must really get on with “Ambrose.”
We have fallen out of love with the beach house and now may buy a house on Adelaide Drive.
Don in a bad state, yesterday and today. Well—that’s something I think I’m learning to accept. I was really delighted when he decided at the last minute to spend the night in town. He decides at the last minute so I shan’t be able to make any plans. Is he aware of this?
June 9. Don got fired from his job yesterday. They told him they were laying off all the “voucher holders” (I think they’re called; anyhow, the temporary employees) for the summer. Don is terribly hurt, shaken in his confidence. So, after all, he thinks, he hasn’t made the grade. Untrue as this may be, it’s a serious setback—Don being what Don is.
Stravinskys came on Sunday. We had a very happy time together. Talk about Wystan—the sadistic antitheater side of him which occasionally appears in the plays. The covering of Baba’s head with the tea cozy in The Rake’s Progress, for instance. Igor is fascinated by fire. He comes out with me when I barbecue the steaks, and keeps up a commentary: “Etwas umdrehen. Wasser.101 Here also. Oh, bravo!”
Yesterday saw an exhibition of neurotic laziness such as I haven’t known since the worst days of World in the Evening. Today I have got to do at least six pages.
David Abell is repairing the closet, repainting roof of shower, etc.
Marinette Andrews keeps bringing in prospective buyers for the house.
June 13. Here I am, having to squeeze in under the gate again. And in a rush because the Spenders are at Evelyn Hooker’s, waiting for me to join them.
Don went through a very bad mood yesterday about losing his job. He’s better today. On Tuesday last, on a sudden impulse, started writing a queer story. It is to be absolutely frank. I just want to see how near I could get to the nerve.
June 16. Triumph today, because Don took his drawings down to the office of the California Stylist magazine, and they were delighted with them and he is to do some work for them.
I wish we could sell our house. We go into escrow tomorrow, and we run a risk of being stuck with a huge debt if we can’t. How I hate business! And how Marinette Andrews loves it! She waltzes in and out of this house as if she owned it, and there is much loud bold laughter with the lady clients—somewhat dikey.
This strange story of mine is writing itself—almost against my will. I’ve called it “Afterwards.”
A card from George Manitzas, saying that Fräulein Thurau is dead. She died two years ago.
Bob Craft, says Vera Stravinsky, is so fat he couldn’t get into his evening shirts102 for the Rossignol concert, last night. That’s a warning to me. I think I’m fatter than I have ever been.
June 17. Edward Upward writes that he likes “Mr. Lancaster” very much. His only criticisms are of the way I handle the Christopher of 1928—and those I agree with. But now I absolutely must go ahead with “Ambrose.” I’ve been idling. Having so much material to work on is actually a handicap. And I still don’t have an anecdote.
Doris Dowling at the Carousel, where we went after dinner with Gavin last night, was like a tourist visiting the Taos pueblo. She fraternized with the dancers. One of them had a lei and a derby hat. Doris put on the hat. And Salka (who always makes a bore of herself when other women are around, because she wants to show off) complained that the bars in Berlin were better. I pointed out that these people get pushed around by the police. She acted surprised. But just let anyone touch her Jews—!
June 18. When I saw Swami last night, as usual, he told me that [one of the monks] is seriously thinking of leaving Trabuco. While visiting his folks in Mexico City, he fell in love with the wife of [an] Indian [diplomat]. So that’s why he was asking me about earning one’s living as a writer. Swami says sadly that it’s Mahamaya,103 and he only hopes it’ll pass.
Marvellous weather. In swimming yesterday and today. A big shark scare is on. Helicopters patrol the beach.
The escrow papers for 145 Adelaide Drive have arrived. But no sale for our house yet.
June 24. Well, we went into escrow yesterday. Still no buyer for this place.
Glorious weather, the sea filthy with weed and tar.
Last night I was drunk with Jim [Charlton] and we more or less got back to our old relationship, which was very nice. Don spent the night in town.
Lincoln Kirstein comes tomorrow. We’re going to ask him to stay with us.
My left knee very painful.
The novel crawls.
June 30. Lincoln only left this morning because he couldn’t get a plane.
His visit was nearly a disaster, because I was furious with him for refusing at the last moment to come with us to the Stravinskys’, so I got mad and said exactly what I thought of the Gagaku104—in fact, said more than I thought. Because, deadly dull as it is, it still makes a sort of grave ritualistic impression which would be quite satisfactory if only it didn’t go on so long.
However, the nasty taste of all this was removed yesterday by an amusing visit by Lincoln and me to Forest Lawn and the Brooks baths.
But no work done. And I feel guilty about that.
And how tiresome, people coming in to look around the house.
Lincoln seemed much less crazy, indeed quite relaxed, though he showed his usual violent resentments from time to time. He says that nearly all of his thinking is based on Auden’s and that it is terribly hard for him to disagree with Auden about anything.
He quite coldly refused to give or attend a farewell party for the Gagaku.
Do I still like him? Oh yes. I rather love him.
July 1. A bad lazy day, because I haven’t yet recovered from Lincoln.
And I must not get up late!
Swami told me more, this evening, about [the monk who wants to leave]. He has actually had sex with this woman—the wife of the Indian [diplomat] in Mexico. She is older than he is, has grown-up [children]. She is from Malabar, where inheritance is matrilineal, and the women are immoral (says Swami). She and [he] can’t possibly live in India together, so he would have to support her here. Swami hopes she won’t be able to get a divorce from her husband, who already knows. Swami says no one at Trabuco knows. He will not tell them, in case the whole thing blows over, and [the monk] stays on there.
I said: “Swami, you aren’t nearly as upset about this as you were about Sarada105—why? Don’t you feel [this boy] has a real vocation?”
Swami: “I couldn’t pray for him. I don’t know why. I only said that the Lord must do his will. I prayed three whole nights for Sarada.”
I said: “What about the other boys? Don’t you feel that any of them has a real vocation?”
Swami: “No. Not yet. [This one] is a good boy. He loves me. But he is selfish. And he lets his parents influence him. They want to stop him from being a monk.
“Prema is good, but he isn’t straight. If he doesn’t like someone he tries in an underhanded way to get him out of the society.”
Dr. Peschelt told me today that he wants to do $3,000 worth of work on my teeth!
Marinette Andrews talking to other real estate brokers: “Every house has its buyer… But I never sell an easy house. There are no easy houses.”
July 5. A drunken and somewhat violent Fourth.
Coming back from a morning swim—without breakfast, which may account for my nervousness—I saw that Marinette had brought Madge MacDonald to the house. Madge was sitting up there with her dog. How I immediately saw it was: How dare Marinette pretend that Madge is a bona fide buyer, and how dare Madge pretend she is? So I ran up the stairs to the sundeck shouting: “Get that woman out of the house!”
This morning, Marinette explain
s that Madge was only there to describe the house to a doctor at UCLA hospital, and that Madge has helped her sell other houses to doctors, already. BUT Don heard Madge say: “Marinette has been persuading me to sell my house and buy this one.” No—Marinette is not quite straight.
After a drunken red white and blue party at the Cottens’, I went in swimming again and cut my elbow and hand.
Today we went to the Eames’s studio in Venice, to see the film they will show in Moscow.106 As Don said, you feel you are really in the presence of somebody—a dedicated person. What fun they have! Their lives seem so dedicated, inventive and innocent.
The marvellous contraption in which a falling marble plays a xylophone by the force of gravity.
The gravely smiling sly faces of grown-up play-children. They are actually grandparents!
July 8. Last two days, I’ve been sick—a wretched cold with fever and back pains. Struggled out last night to see the opening of Vernon Old’s exhibition—quite a triumph for him. He is certainly far better than his colleagues, Shifrin and Totter. He looked very handsome and mature, talking to admiring girls.
Gerald (with whom we had supper first) seemed tired too. So it was dull. Don is depressed because the California Stylist is giving him the runaround. It is glorious but too hot, this weather. Septic for invalids. Read about Benedict Arnold this morning.
July 16. The weather is still very hot and the sea full of rocks. Not much fun swimming from dirty crowded State Beach. We keep hoping to sell the house, but don’t. Now I’m scared, because Paul Millard has told Don it’s greatly overpriced and we should hasten to settle for anything near thirty we can get.
Gerald Heard in great style at lunch yesterday, declaring that we don’t understand the Red Chinese (Felix Greene says they’re sweet, humane and witty) and that we grossly overestimate the evil effects of heroin, cocaine and opium. He also said that Aldous Huxley is probably dying of cancer. He is terribly thin, wasted and yellow. He just had a bad fall.
Yesterday morning, I went as witness to the court when Virginia Viertel applied for a divorce. Virginia had a nasty bump on the temple—I suppose from falling down when drunk. But the photographers shot quite a flattering picture of her. Peter is now free to marry Deborah Kerr as soon as the divorces become absolute.107
In the water on the beach above Trancas with Peter and Deborah last Sunday, we saw what seemed to be a shark. I was surprised what a lot of Lorca Peter knows.
I keep the novel and the Ramakrishna book going—also this strange story “Afterwards.” I just go from step to step like a climber, not quite knowing where I’ll arrive.
Don is away most of most days, at his studio,108 drawing. On the whole, we get along very happily. I hope he is happy. At least he is fairly free—about as free as you can be and live with another person. I think of him with constant anxiety and love.
Just talked to Salka, who feels that Virginia made a terrible mistake in testifying that Peter told her he loved another woman. Because all the papers today assume that the other woman was Deborah, though as a matter of fact Peter didn’t even know Deborah in 1952 when he left Virginia.
July 18. Yesterday, after two days’ work with Gavin Lambert, I completed a really much superior version of The Vacant Room. Gavin is quite helpful, and good psychologically as a collaborator, though I can’t say I feel he gets many ideas. He waits for me. Or is it that I insist on being the active partner? John van Druten always dried me up by doing that.
Am trying hard to lose weight.
Oh, how slowly I work! It’s terrible—it crawls. Like wading in mud. The Ramakrishna book bores me to death, but that doesn’t faze me so much; after all, it’s an austerity. The Greek episode of my novel bores me—why? I’m not cutting deep enough into anything. As for my story, I’m somewhat stuck in that, too.
Still the house is not sold! Panic beginning, but Marinette continues to promise.
July 24. It appears that Aldous is recovering from his fall. This morning, on the telephone, he said how terribly obscurantist the professors at Santa Barbara were. When they talked about D. H. Lawrence, they used so much academic jargon, he couldn’t understand them. “They feel they have to justify their existence by pretending that literature is a branch of science.”
Igor, last night, seemed very depressed. He played solitaire in silence. Poor Bob can’t straighten his arm, after his fall. Vera very fat.
I’m trying to kid myself that the electric typewriter Carter Lodge has given me makes me actually able to write more. I have managed to finish chapter five of the Ramakrishna book in record time. Now for the novel.
Dick Foote keeps saying of himself: “I’m very outgoing.” They were here to talk to Jo and Ben about Tahiti.
July 26. Failed again to keep up my diary minimum.
The hot weather continues. I can scarcely remember any other kind. But I am getting on with work. A couple of days ago, I finished chapter five of the Ramakrishna book. Now I’m hurrying ahead to finish my queer story.
A hot foggy day on the beach. We went to the beach house Doris Dowling has borrowed. A dreary traffic jam both ways. The utter squalor of beach life—angling fathers, cooking mothers, children, dogs.
No sale on house.
July 30. After fury at Marinette’s evasions, and other violent but unimportant emotions, we went into escrow with Mrs. Perls this morning. So the house is sold, barring accidents.
Yesterday I went down to Laguna, to see Swamis Prabhavananda and Vandanananda and drove home with [the monk who wants to marry]. He told me the whole story of his love affair with this Indian woman, and his resolve to leave Trabuco.
The chief thing which struck me is [his] basic indifference. His attitude is: “If the Lord doesn’t want me to do this, He’ll stop it.” And I really feel this is sincere. Yet, at the same time, it appears as a kind of emotional lameness in him. It makes you wonder—does he really care for the woman or for being a swami?
He keeps repeating: “I know this life is nothing. I’m ready to die any time.”
He claims this has nothing to do with mere sex urge. This is a relationship with a particular person.
He says Swami said: “I’d like to poison her!”
He’s quite aware that his leaving will be an awful blow to the boys. But he has something of the cynical selfishness of an old soldier. He’s sorry for the green recruits, but they must stand their chances.
He’s often seen how Swami couldn’t sleep all night, and prayed and shed tears because somebody was leaving. Now he feels that Swami should do the same for him.
There’s also a lot of arrogance in him. He says in effect: whatever kind of life I have to lead, I can take it.
August 1. Peter Viertel was in, the day before yesterday, bringing me part of his novel.109 He talked of the rivalry between Dominguín and Ordóñez. He said, “One of them’s going to end in hospital.” And that very same day the news came that Dominguín has been gored.110
Yesterday I finished this queer story “Afterwards.” Is it sheer pornographic sentimentalism? It seems to me to have some emotion. It was certainly a strange experience, writing it.
Don Murray clowning last night at his surprise birthday party. He put on the tennis shorts he’d been given, over his pants. “The revolution is about to break out!” The guests eyed him coldly.
August 7. Since last Monday, the 3rd, we have been involved in a mad scheme to go to Europe, see Maugham and M. and Laughton’s Lear and Olivier’s Coriolanus, and come back via a visit to Truman Capote on Clark’s Island, Massachusetts. Of course, I don’t really want to go—the rat race will be fantastic—but it seems like we’re going.
Talk at Claude Short’s111 with Bob Schubert, the dancer-cashier who had a nervous breakdown when he didn’t get a contract at Fox.
I have done a huge amount of work lately. The “fantasy” version of Down There On a Visit is now ready revised for Stephen, and I’ve nearly written the rough draft of chapter six.
Don
is delighted with “Afterwards.”
August 14. Well, the trip seems pretty much set. I wish it were over, but I’ll enjoy it, I guess.
[The monk who fell in love with the wife of the Indian diplomat] is now ready to leave.
Joan Elan is said to be pregnant, by Ivan Moffat.
In one objective—in some ways, the most important one, I’ve failed. Haven’t finished even a rough draft of “Ambrose.” Don’t know why I have such a block.
Gavin Lambert is enthusiastic over “Afterwards.”
September 2. How often I’ve meant to write in this book before today! Now a lot is forgotten. Some of it no doubt just as well. But at least this is being a memorable trip.
We flew to New York the night of August 18–19 by jet. Very calm flight, with none of the expected horrifying noise on landing. But New York was just awful—a heat like Singapore. I must never again unnecessarily expose myself to great heat. It turns me into a miserable petulant invalid. Don and I clashed bitterly and sulked and hated each other. One thing I must say about him—because I would have said it at the time if I had written in this book—he has an absolutely female obstinacy coupled with an inertia about making decisions. Having let me agree to go to see Lincoln in the country—and be bored pissless by a terrible performance of All’s Well That Ends Well at Stratford, Connecticut—he tried every which way to get me to call it off, with an idiotic lie we would certainly have been caught out in. Yesterday he went ahead and bought all the theater tickets against our return to London, although this made us too late to see about our return flight from Nice. (Annoyingly enough, we didn’t miss our bus to the airport because it was later than we’d been told; and Alan Searle was able to fix our reservations over the phone in a couple of minutes. So I was made to seem like a fusspot, and Don’s confidence that he will always muddle through was triumphantly vindicated!) We had another quarrel at Stratford,112 during and after which Don declared that we both hate each other a little bit and are in constant competition. But right now all is love, and I don’t mean that ironically. It really is. Nothing has been really damaged between us. It’s just that we’re both intensely selfish, and bad travellers.
Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1 Page 118