Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  David and Helen Laird from L.A. State were there, and Hope Lange—quite drunk—with her brother and his roommate the youngest Stevenson son, John (they’re all three to come to supper tomorrow) and George Stevens and George Stevens Jr, and Ivan Moffat, who seems to be circling buzzardlike over Hope’s head. Hope told me she felt we were “losing contact.” She was sad about this.

  Tony left in the midst of all this, and only showed up when we got back to their house, where he was sulking in a car. Later, he became a little more cheerful over a nightcap and told me, “You’re so beautiful, Christopher.” Mary says he went off this morning still on bad terms with Wyatt, however.

  Don just called in (10:30 p.m.) to say he’s staying the night in town. The first time, I believe, since May 28! Can this have any connection with what happened this morning?196 My instinct tells me it does have, and instinct is the only guide to Don’s behavior. But, at least, all is harmonious.

  My back does seem to be better.

  Today I only wrote one page of “Paul.” Bad. I’ll get up real early and do some before I go to Charles’s.

  Rather cool weather—with a sense of relief that the Fourth is over.

  Bought three “Private Property: Keep Out” signs and now, with my usual perversity, feel badly about putting them up. But I shall.

  Incidentally, Tony Richardson, who’s known Gavin for years, also feels that there’s something emotionally mysterious about Gavin, says you never really know if Gavin likes you or not. “I felt more at ease with you and Don,” said Tony, “the first time I met you.”

  July 9. Have allowed a lapse—don’t know why. (I’m racing to fill up this diary because, as I’ve said already, I want to start typing the future ones, to save my hand.)

  The only social event to record is that we had Hope Lange, her brother David and his best buddy, John, one of Adlai Stevenson’s sons, to supper, the night before last. Also, Glenn Ford showed up! It was sort of embarrassing—for him at least—because Hope had evidently told him, “Oh, just come along!”—most likely when drunk. We get the impression that Hope is running a bit wild, right now; which is fine, except that blondes take to fat and bloat so easily. Is she grieving over Don Murray? One can’t tell.

  The evening was further complicated by the fact that Hope had suggested arriving at 6:00 with a photographer, who was to take some pictures of her for a magazine interview, including some of Don drawing her. In fact, Hope didn’t arrive till 7:00, with the boys. And of course the photographer started taking them and Hope and me, and neglecting the drawing act, and I, knowing Hope’s utter vagueness, suspected she had neglected to tell the photographer anything about the drawing, so I spoke up and reminded them of it. And Don was furious and hissed in his most basilisk manner, “Don’t ever do that again!” And I thought we were to have an evening of submerged sulks; but he snapped out of it and said he was sorry. Anyhow, the pictures got taken. I am a fusspot, I know. But there’s a time to fuss.

  Glenn Ford arrived, and would accept nothing but a coke. He’s a nice man—lonely, I guess, after a divorce (?) and perhaps trailing after Hope a bit. He talked nicely about his debt to Bette Davis for insisting on having him for her leading man in A Stolen Life. Left early.

  John Stevenson is quite a doll, in a piggy pudgy slit-eyed way. Temperamentally, he reminds me of Sylvain Mangeot as a young man. He is sleepy and pig-sly. He acted rather indifferent when his father was mentioned; but that’s most likely a guard he keeps up. He remained quite sober, while David Lange and Hopey proceeded to get plastered. So did we, rather. But, despite hangovers, Don did some good drawings of Connie Dowling (haven’t seen them) which she bought. On the 7th he did two marvellous ones of Tom Wright—who bought one of them.

  Yesterday and the day before I went to Laughton’s and we read the Crito and Phaedo, and now Charles wants to put part of the last act together, inserting the cave passage from book seven of the Republic, instead of the long dialogue on immortality which simply doesn’t work. I think this is a good idea. Charles was very proud that he had had it—so exactly as John van Druten would have been.

  Meanwhile, there’s an offer from Fox, to polish the script of a film about St. Francis. It’s called The Joyful Beggar, a sufficiently off-putting title. Quote from the first page—“We see and feel the turbulence of the twelfth century under this narration”—oh yeah? The film is to be produced by one of the young Skourases, and directed by Michael Curtiz—two more strikes against it. Don says don’t touch it—we’ll get by. But the money isn’t to be sneezed at.

  Very slowly, page by page, I grind at “Paul.” No sparks yet—but I must just keep on.

  July 11. The worst of this period is that I’m giving way to jitters, because I’m constantly being kept waiting for people or phone calls. So I don’t get ahead with “Paul.” And nothing else matters.

  Today, Laughton and I started a scissors-and-paste job, inserting the cave speech from the Republic between the beginning and end of the Phaedo. Charles thinks there’s also a place for the Crito—some of it. This snipping and pasting gave the work a kind of nursery atmosphere which was agreeable.

  Yesterday a really funereal party at the Bracketts’, for some distinguished Democrats. But all I heard was Rory’s domestic misery with Marguerite (he says she hates his career), Agnes Moorehead’s worry about not getting a job (Rory recommended she should switch to Hugh French) and Marguerite’s bitchery (she hates Hope Lange). Don thought she was looking terribly ugly. That strange old freak, Dodo Pendleton, told the story of the keepsakes and accessories she has in her purse, all chained together with gold. A handsome airline pilot in Rome gave her his badge, saying that whenever she was scared on a plane she should think of him, because he had flown so many thousands of miles without an accident—and, within two months, he was killed!

  Obscene old Polly Adler197 was at Jerry Lawrence’s. We visited him later. And a younger woman who had a voice—Russian Jewish?—which made me want to scream. She went on and on and on about what she called mysticism—which meant being successful and keeping your youth. Both she and Polly had been down to the symposium at Tecate. It sounded like the dreariest crank-fest. Aldous’s speech was played on tape.

  In the morning we visited Doris (Dowling) and Len Kaufman, who are spending their weekends at an apartment over the Housemans’ garage in Malibu Colony. Len very Jewish and fat. Doris was seriously jealous because her miserable whining brat John-oh (or however she’d spell it) had gotten a crush on the man next door, a TV writer198 who fascinates all the neighbor children so much that they’ve formed a club with him as the only adult member. Every day, he finds new ways of amazing them. The day before, he’d caught a moray eel and today he was going to barbecue it. This was thought to be a slight on Len, who had said that, this summer, he wanted “to get close to the kid.” Len doesn’t really mind, though—only Doris. Len is writing a TV story about the whole thing.

  July 14. Something bad has happened. The night before last, very late, after the performance of Duel of Angels199 and a dreary party at Scandia with Paul Kohner,200 William Wyler,201 Mary Ure and Tony, and lots of agents, Don said goodbye, and drove off. He explained that he had to spend the night and last night looking after Paul Millard’s studio because Dick Dobyns202 had gone to Claremont.

  This morning, Tony Richardson calls me, saying he wants to meet Don early this afternoon, as he’ll be free on account of Buddy Adler’s funeral. So I call Paul Millard’s apartment, and, to my stupefaction, find myself talking to Paul, who’s been back from Europe two days already, he says. So then I get an inspiration and call Apple203 because I know Don was going to draw her yesterday afternoon. And she tells me Don called her and told her he had a stomach upset—food poisoning—and a friend was looking after him; so he couldn’t come.

  So now here I am, sitting on the phone and feeling sick with worry. And behind the worry, all kinds of other feelings crowding in. A voice keeps reminding me that he told me a totally unnecessary, ela
borate lie—or so it seems. But right now I don’t give a shit about that. I only want to know he’s all right. I am gradually getting very scared—and writing this is just a way of killing time.

  This makes me realize how desperately insecure the whole structure of my present life really is. It depends so utterly on Don and on my belief in our relationship. That’s wrong, of course. And perhaps this will teach me something. But for the moment the only question is—where is he?

  Later. Don called about 11:30 a.m. It seems he really was sick—it wasn’t just an excuse to Apple; and he did arrive at Paul’s apartment the night before last and find Paul in bed asleep and leave without waking him. So he didn’t tell a lie, and now it seems incredible that I should have ever thought he would. The truth is, I am sort of half prepared for anybody to do anything. That’s not entirely a fault, of course. It makes for understanding.

  Now I feel nothing but utter relief.

  July 17. There’s a lot to write but I doubt if I can do much because my hand is shaking a bit. It’s shaking because (1) I have a huge hangover, (2) I have taken, for the first time, one of the all-black (highest strength) Biphetamine capsules which Carter Lodge gave me, (3) I have drunk gallons of coffee on top of it.

  Never mind! The result is that I have written eight whole pages of “Paul” and am halfway into a ninth!

  Thick fog in the Canyon—ideal working weather. In town it’s very hot. Don spent last night sleeping at his studio because he wanted to make an early start, and we were up till I guess nearly 4:00 a.m. After the theater, we took Vivien Leigh to the Carousel with Tony Richardson, his friend Jim the driving instructor, Robert Helpmann204 and Jack Merivale. Merivale, who is an almost unbelievable young-old British prude, who belongs in the last century, sat in the car after taking one horrified look. He is in the play and is thought by many to be Vivien Leigh’s lover.

  Vivien loved the Carousel—where she was recognized; and it was a pity we got there so late that they were on the point of closing. It was packed. At closing time, the boys were all shouting, “Where’s a party?” and then a couple were announced and the addresses given.

  Vivien didn’t seem at all crazy; but she is neurotically self-obsessed and aggressive in her opinions of plays, etc. You feel her devotion to Larry, however. That’s tragic. She talks of him constantly. After the Carousel, Mary Ure gave us a delicious supper—cold leek soup, cold salmon, pouilly, strawberries. I really love Mary—she is an adorable girl; one of the most lovable people I have met in a long time. And Tony I like very much, too—though he’s wild and difficult and might easily become resentful and quarrelsome.

  Don seemed very tense and edgy on his return home, but the atmosphere got better last night. I simply must not make any kind of demand on him at this time—even for love.

  All I saw of the convention was Kennedy’s short speech (on TV) after his nomination. It put me off, rather. He seemed cold and stiff. But his acceptance speech is generally thought to have been promising. And Gore, still loyal to him, says he sometimes has the look “of a young Caesar”(!)

  July 18. 7:25 a.m. Woke early, feeling still heartthrobby and overstimulated from the pill I took yesterday. It certainly doesn’t mix with coffee or liquor. We were drunk again last night. That’s three nights in the last four. And tonight I’m going out with Gore. Diana Lynn and her husband205 gave a party for him yesterday. Why did we go? Well, of course, because of Gore. But we didn’t see much of him. I sat next to a very pretty blonde girl who poured out the tale of how her husband was involved in the Tallman scandal where they were caught naked with marijuana and chorus girls (or boys), and how she forgave him because she loved him. I warned her not to run around telling this story to everybody—which was probably my only good deed of the evening. Don was very sweet to me, but suffering from some kind of persecution resentments against the hosts, because he’d been put at an awful table. I like Agnes Moorehead.

  My weight is again down to 146, but, as before, I cannot cross that psycho-physical shadow line, 145.

  Such a beautiful pale gold morning. It’ll probably fog in later.

  Now I’m going to do something I haven’t done in months and months—work (on “Paul”) before breakfast.

  July 19. I had supper with Gore last night. I do like and admire him—absurd and serious simultaneously, and all the time. He is now rather playing the role of the reckless young political gambler, rushing to fame or disaster. He enjoys playing with the idea that the Republicans will launch some terrific smear campaign against his private life—but I don’t think he seriously believes this will happen. He talked about “the new Athens” which will arise when Kennedy is in power; but at the same time he described, rather admiringly, instances of Bob Kennedy’s ruthless methods. Gore also admires Jack Kennedy’s ruthless sex life. As for himself, he claims that he now feels no sentiment whatever—nothing but lust. He can’t imagine kissing anyone. The way he has to have these sex dates set up is certainly compulsive.

  He talks of himself as a failed writer. But there’s a questioning look in his eye as he tells me this. I protest, quite sincerely, with praise of The Best Man. But I think I know what he means. First, he wants to be a novelist, not a playwright. Then he wants to write fantasy, not realism. He feels he lacks imagination. And I think he does.

  At the same time, he is pleased and amused by his own performance as an operator. He likes himself making speeches. (He was excellent on the Levant show; we watched it up at Chris Wood’s.) He told me, in deadly confidence, that he is planning a marriage of convenience with—Phyllis Kirk!

  He pleased me by speaking with real appreciation of Don and his talent. And not just the talent but the observation behind it.

  July 20. I wish I could write something which would catch a sense of now-at-this-moment—it’s about 4:15 p.m. I have been lying naked on my upside-down board doing the exercises Dr. Jack Lewis prescribed for my back. Put on weight again, probably because of the gnocchi I ate with Gore at the Marquis. It’s funny how one thinks about one’s body. Actually, I’m very stiff most of the time, with my bad knee (a little worried about the lump there) and my back. I suppose I seem like a stiff, painfully walking elderly man. And yet, again, I refuse to admit this to myself. I still think of myself as moderately active and quite capable of violent physical behavior, as I was up to the age of fifty at least.

  And yet, in many respects—I can never repeat this too often—this is certainly one of the happiest periods of my life. Because of Don. Because I have work to do. Because I am living exactly where I want to live. Today I wrote some more on “Paul”—to the end of page thirty-five, and now I see quite a way ahead. I got some really exciting and important insights as I was reading Plato with Charles, yesterday.

  Of course, this happiness of mine is terribly insecure. It rests on Don. On my own health, which could easily go wrong and make work impossible and run us into financial difficulty. And on the international situation, which looks terrible and promises big crises this fall in Cuba, Africa, Berlin and elsewhere. (I still believe, however, that Russia won’t deliberately get us into all-out rocket war.)

  All of this points to one thing—hold on to the anchor. Make japam. Nothing else can be relied on, and all other activity is, in the last analysis, merely symbolic. Do I entirely believe this? Very, very nearly. Ninety-five percent. Do I act as if I did? Very, very, very seldom. I rely on Swami to do the work.

  I look at my body, with its wrinkles and slackness of the skin and other imperfections which can never be set right any more now. It is wearing out, tiring, getting ready, whether I like it or not, to die. I am getting ready to die. All very well to say I am not my body and even believe this—still, it is a parting. All very well to say that my whole life has been a dying and saying goodbye to the past; this will be different. Even if it is quite painless, it will be different.

  And there is saying goodbye to Don. Nobody who has ever loved anyone as I love Don can seriously pretend that that won�
�t be painful.

  July 21. Terrific heat in town. Even out here, at 10:00 (sun time) it’s already muggy. And I have to go in and read with Laughton. He’s in a great state of excitement today because Terry arrives tomorrow. Charles and I wallow naked in the pool like a pair of old hippos.

  Supper last night with Jerry Lawrence. Middle-aged bachelors leering over photos from his European trip. Jerry loved the Russians, with their spontaneous kissing and cuddling, but said they weren’t as nice in Moscow as in Leningrad. They had actually tried to reassure him, had begged him not to mind about the U-2 incident (which took place while he was there). Jerry went with some men from the embassy and questioned a long line of people waiting to buy newspapers, to find if they wanted to read about the breakdown of the summit conference. They mostly didn’t. They wanted to know what was playing at the movies. Politically, they seemed quite apathetic.

  Hugh and Robin French came in this morning with a novel by Arthur Calder-Marshall, Occasion of Glory, about Mexico. They want to make a film of it with James Mason.

  July 22. Charles, who is now in a state of jitters about Terry Jenkins’s arrival, again hinted that Don would be able to lend a hand at amusing him. So I said Don was much too busy drawing. So Charles said there was something wrong with his drawing, something unresolved. Which was really just irritation. But then he got much more sensible, admitted Don’s talent and said the unresolved thing was due to the conflict between wanting to do a picture and wanting to get a pleasing likeness. So he said Don should study Sharaku,206 who did all of his work in 1794—all that remains of it, at least—bitching female impersonators and other actors of the period—and was, according to Charles a very great artist. So Charles wrote a note to Don, along with the book207—making it clear it was loaned, not a gift—“I think,” he wrote, “there may be a streak of this kind of talent struggling to be noticed.” Then, realizing this didn’t sound right, he added “by you” after “noticed.” And added, “Sharaku it is said was executed for having made these prints.” When I told all this on the phone to Don, he—with that brilliant but rather infuriating perception of the masochist—knew at once that Charles had done it because of Terry!