The political situation here seems very dull. I expect there is a great deal going on behind the scenes, but one is not aware of it. Papen visits Hindenburg, Hitler visits Papen, Hitler and Papen visit Schleicher, Hugenberg visits Hindenburg and finds he’s out. And so forth. There is no longer that slightly exhilarating awareness of crisis in the gestures of beggars and tram-conductors.
Shortly after writing the above, Christopher got his copy of Stephen’s poems. The book wasn’t dedicated to anybody, but Stephen had inscribed it: “For Christopher in admiration and with love from the writer Jan 10 1933.” (When the second edition appeared in 1934, it was dedicated to Christopher.)
Thanking Stephen, Christopher wrote:
I think the print and binding is perfect. I feel nearly as pleased with the book as if I’d written it myself—and keep taking it out of the shelf and turning over the pages. The blurb is portentous tripe. What idiot wrote it?
(This blurb had already been apologized for by Stephen in an earlier letter: “It seems to have been written out of pure malice and I’m afraid it will annoy Wystan.” Here are some extracts:
If Auden is the satirist of this poetical renascence Spender is its lyric poet. In his work the experimentalism of the last two decades is beginning to find its reward … Technically, these poems appear to make a definite step forward in modern English poetry. Their passionate and obvious sincerity ranks them in a tradition which reaches back to the early Greek lyric poets.)
Christopher continued:
I still stick to my favorites: The Port. Children who were rough. Oh young men. After they have tired. And, above all, The Pylons. The Pylons is the best thing in the book, I think.
(I don’t agree with the majority of Christopher’s choices, now. He was charmed by Stephen’s left-wing romanticism, with its accent on Comrades. I prefer the explosive egotistic artlessness of the “Marston” poems; as I read them, I can hear the young Stephen’s voice, blurting them out. This book also contained: “I think continually of those who were truly great…,” which ends with what was to be one of Spender’s most quoted lines: “And left the vivid air signed with their honour.” I find that I still want to boast of the fact that, when Stephen showed Christopher his original draft of this poem, it ended: “And left the air signed with their vivid honour.” It was Christopher who urged the transposition of “vivid.”)
Here it is very cold and snowing. I am writing with a rug round my knees. Uncle has sent my allowance. So London will not see me for three more months, at least. Heinz cooked a schnitzel here last night. God knows what he did to it. He made it smell like an Airedale dog.
At the end of January, John Lehmann came to Berlin to see Christopher. This was his second visit. His first had been a brief one, during October 1932. Lehmann had now, after much self-searching, left the Hogarth Press and gone to live in Vienna, in order that John the Poet could function without obligations and restraints. It was with John the Poet that Christopher became friends. When they were together, Christopher felt inspired to improvise sex fantasies of indefinite length—episode leading into episode, Arabian Nights style, sometimes for hours at a stretch. His affection for John the Poet became so firmly established that, when John the Editor later reappeared, Christopher was able to work for him, admire his ability, and feel awed by his energy, while still finding his personality comic. John the Poet was always there in the background, sharing Christopher’s amusement.
* * *
On January 30, President Hindenburg appointed Hitler to be the new Chancellor of Germany. A huge torchlight procession of singing Nazis celebrated this triumph of backstairs intrigue and manipulation of the gaga old President. Christopher wrote to Stephen:
As you will have seen, we are having a new government, with Charlie Chaplin and Father Christmas in the ministry. All words fail.
By “Father Christmas,” Christopher may have meant either Hindenburg himself or Alfred Hugenberg, the Nationalist Party leader, Hitler’s temporary ally. Hugenberg was then nearly seventy, so he qualified for the role … Christopher, like other optimistic ill-wishers, kept repeating that this appointment was a blessing in disguise; Hitler would now have to cope with the economic mess, he would reveal himself as an incompetent windbag, he would be forced to resign, and the Nazis would be forever discredited.
I don’t blame Christopher the amateur observer for his lack of foresight. I do condemn Christopher the novelist for not having taken a psychological interest, long before this, in the members of the Nazi high command. Even as late as 1932, it would have been possible for him to meet them personally. Goebbels, the party propagandist, was obliged to make himself available to the foreign press. And it wasn’t too difficult to arrange interviews with Goering or even Hitler. Christopher wasn’t Jewish, he belonged to the Nazis’ favorite foreign race, he spoke German fluently, he was a writer and could easily have been accepted as a freelance journalist whom they might hope to convert to their philosophy … What inhibited him? His principles? His inertia? Neither is an excuse. He missed what would surely have been one of the most memorable experiences of his Berlin life.
* * *
On February 27, the Nazis caused the Reichstag building to be set on fire. Then, accusing the Communists of having done it as a signal for an uprising, they declared a state of emergency and began making mass arrests. “Charlie Chaplin” had ceased to be funny.
* * *
Stephen wrote (March 1):
The news from Germany is awful. [A big deletion.] No, perhaps I had better not say anything that might conceivably get you into trouble. Or is this a ridiculous fear?
Stephen was back in London, suffering from a tapeworm which he had picked up in Spain. The problem, in removing a tapeworm, is to get rid of its head, which hooks itself to the lining of the alimentary canal and hangs on, even when the entire chain of segments attached to it has been evacuated. Sometimes the head can’t be found in the stool so the doctor doesn’t know if it has been lost or is still inside the patient. Christopher bought a particularly repulsive postcard photograph of the head of Goebbels and sent it to Stephen, inscribed: “Can this be it?!!!”
I have been in bed four days receiving purgatives of the most powerful kind and practically starving. So please excuse my writing as I am weak and trembling with joy at your letter.
(Christopher’s joy-inspiring letter must have been written in answer to one of Stephen’s which has been lost. Stephen had evidently expressed fears that a certain person, a member of the “Burning Cactus” group who had been with him in Spain and had now come to Berlin, was making mischief and trying to revive the quarrel between him and Christopher. Stephen, in his tapeworm-weakened, hyper-emotional state, is trembling with joy because Christopher’s letter has assured him that this isn’t so.)
I had kept worrying during the last few days lest we might have another estrangement. When I was first in Barcelona I was awfully upset about our quarrel and I could not get out of my head the letter you wrote me in London … I did not feel bitter or anything but I had waves of being very upset and then at other times I had waves of feeling just the same and I used to wait for those times to write to you.
As far as our friendship is concerned, it is not exactly that I want to be with you or see you very much. Of course, whatever happens, I shall go on living just in the same way and I shall go on with my work, but if I felt you had abandoned the irritating, continual effort to love me and forgive me I would be very disappointed: in fact much more than that. You and F. are the people I most like. For F. everything’s simple and there is no conflict. With you it is different, but in spite of everything you are always fighting and there is something very clear in my picture of you.
Love to Heinz whom I am glad you are always with. I am writing 3 stories and lots of poems. I am 24!
In the elections of March 5, the Nazis failed to win a clear majority, despite their campaign of propaganda and intimidation. But their failure had no practical significance. For,
on March 23, the Reichstag was bullied into passing the so-called Enabling Act, which made Hitler master of Germany. In a mad, meaningless way, his successive steps toward absolute power had all been legal.
After the elections, the weather turned suddenly mild and warm; the porter’s wife at Nollendorfstrasse 17 called it “Hitler’s weather.” The street itself, like all others, was hung with black-white-red swastika flags; it was unwise not to display them. Uniformed Nazis strode along the sidewalks with stern official expressions on their faces; it was advisable to step aside for them. They also came into the cafés and restaurants, rattling collecting boxes for the party; it was necessary to give them something. On the Nollendorfplatz and in other squares and public places, there were radio loudspeakers blaring forth speeches by Goering and Goebbels. “Germany is awake,” they said. People sat in front of the cafés listening to them—cowlike, vaguely curious, complacent, accepting what had happened but not the responsibility for it. Many of them hadn’t even voted—how could they be responsible? The city was full of rumors about what went on behind the scenes, in the Storm Troop barracks, where the political prisoners had been taken. It was said that some were made to spit on Lenin’s picture, swallow castor oil, eat old socks; that some were tortured; that many were already dead. The government denied all this, furiously. Even to repeat such rumors was treason. New ways of committing treason kept being announced in the press.
Some foreign journalists—those who were openly critical of the Nazi government—used to dine together, most evenings, at a small Italian restaurant. Among them was Norman Ebbutt of the London Times. Everybody else in the restaurant, including at least one police spy, watched them and tried to overhear what they were saying. If a German went up to their table and talked to them, he was pretty sure to be questioned by the police later.
One day, a young man came to see Christopher at the Nollendorfstrasse. He knew an escaped eyewitness who could describe conditions in the barracks and give the names of prisoners there; he wanted this to be published outside the country. Christopher had got to know Ebbutt, so he went to him with the information. Ebbutt had already made himself unpopular with the authorities by his revelations; even his own editor was worried about his frankness. The Nazis finally expelled him.
Most of Christopher’s Jewish friends had left Germany or were about to leave. Dr. Hirschfeld had been away on a world tour since 1930. The tour had ended in France, where he remained, knowing that it would be fatal for him to return. Karl Giese had joined him there. Christopher must have made some effort to contact Wilfrid Israel—halfhearted, no doubt. Aside from any cowardice he may have felt, he was aware that he might compromise Wilfrid even further—if that were possible; “foreigner” was already becoming a dirty word, and Christopher was a foreigner who must certainly be listed in the police archives as a member of the Hirschfeld Homosexuals and the Hamilton Reds. (Gerald Hamilton himself had already been closely cross-examined by the political police and had hastened to leave the country.)
When the Nazis held their first boycott of Jewish businesses on April 1, Christopher went to see what was happening to the Israels’ department store. Nothing much, it appeared. Two or three uniformed Storm Troopers were posted at each of the entrances. Their manner wasn’t at all aggressive; they merely reminded each would-be shopper that this was a Jewish store. (In the small provincial towns, where everybody knew everybody and personal hates were fierce, there were window smashings, and shoppers were forcibly disgraced by being marked with rubber ink stamps on their foreheads and cheeks.) Quite a number of people did go into Israel’s while Christopher was there, including Christopher himself. When he came out again, having made some token purchase, he recognized one of the boys at the entrance. They knew each other from the Cosy Corner. During the past year, politics had increasingly divided the bar boys. They had joined one or other of the street gangs which were encouraged, though not always officially recognized, by the Nazis or the Communists or the Nationalists. Now the non-Nazis were in danger, but many of them changed sides and were accepted. If you did get beaten up, it was more likely to be because you had a private enemy; this was a great opportunity to settle old scores.
Boy bars of every sort were being raided, now, and many were shut down. Christopher had lost touch with Karl Giese’s friends. No doubt the prudent ones were scared and lying low, while the silly ones fluttered around town exclaiming how sexy the Storm Troopers looked in their uniforms. He knew only one pair of homosexual lovers who declared proudly that they were Nazis. Misled by their own erotic vision of a New Sparta, they fondly supposed that Germany was entering an era of military man-love, with all women excluded. They were aware, of course, that Christopher thought them crazy, but they dismissed him with a shrug. How could he understand? This wasn’t his homeland … No, indeed it wasn’t. Christopher had realized that for some time already. But this tragic pair of self-deceivers didn’t realize—and wouldn’t, until it was too late—that this wasn’t their homeland, either.
* * *
On April 5, Christopher went to London, taking with him books, papers, and other belongings which he wanted to store in Kathleen’s house before he left Germany for good.
Francis had written inviting Christopher and Heinz to join him in Greece, where he was about to have a house built for himself. He had also invited Erwin Hansen and Erwin had agreed to come. Christopher still hesitated. Partly because he remembered what life with Francis had been like at Mohrin, but more importantly because he was unwilling to opt for one particular place. The mere idea of travel excited him so much, at this time in his life, that he loved to enjoy it in the abstract, as an embarrassment of possibilities. This enjoyment had ceased to be mere daydreaming; for Christopher had just inherited a small legacy from his godmother, Aggie Trevor (see Kathleen and Frank). He could now afford to spend a summer anywhere in Europe or take a short trip farther still. According to a letter from Forster, Christopher was even considering Brazil.
During his stay in London, Christopher again dictated to Richard. This must have been a revised and longer version of the other manuscript. Kathleen’s diary notes that he finished the first part of it a few days before he left, and showed it to Edward Upward. She mentions visits to the house by Bubi (who was then working on a Dutch freighter which smuggled Jewish refugees into England, one on each voyage), by Gerald Hamilton (“He wears a wig and has had an extremely adventurous life!”), and by Forster (whose name Kathleen underlines, evidently as a mark of her special respect).
It was at this time that Forster showed Christopher the typescript of Maurice. Christopher felt greatly honored, of course, by being allowed to read it. Its antique locutions bothered him, here and there. When Alec speaks of sex with Maurice as “sharing,” he grimaced and wriggled his toes with embarrassment. And yet the wonder of the novel was that it had been written when it had been written; the wonder was Forster himself, imprisoned within the jungle of pre-war prejudice, putting these unthinkable thoughts into words. Perhaps listening from time to time, to give himself courage, to the faraway chop-chop of those pioneer heroes, Edward Carpenter and George Merrill, boldly enlarging their clearing in the jungle. Carpenter and Merrill had been Maurice’s godparents. Merrill, as Forster was later to disclose, had psychophysically inspired him to write it by touching him gently just above the buttocks. (Forster—how characteristically!—comments, “I believe he touched most people’s.”)
Did Christopher think Maurice as good as Forster’s other novels? He would have said—and I still agree with him—that it was both inferior and superior to them: inferior as an artwork, superior because of its purer passion, its franker declaration of its author’s faith. This moved Christopher tremendously on that first reading.
At their meeting in 1932, the Master had praised the Pupil. This time, the Pupil was being asked by the Master, quite humbly, how Maurice appeared to a member of the thirties generation. “Does it date?” Forster was asking. To which Christopher, I am proud t
o say, replied, “Why shouldn’t it date?” This was wise and true as well as encouraging, and it cheered Forster greatly. He told Christopher so in a subsequent letter.
My memory sees them sitting together, facing each other. Christopher sits gazing at this master of their art, this great prophet of their tribe, who declares that there can be real love, love without limits or excuse, between two men. Here he is, humble in his greatness, unsure of his own genius. Christopher stammers some words of praise and devotion, his eyes brimming with tears. And Forster—amused and touched, but more touched than amused—leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. (Nevertheless, he continued to call Christopher “Isherwood” for two more years.)
Almost every time they met, after this, they discussed the problem: how should Maurice end? That the ending should be a happy one was taken for granted; Forster had written the novel in order to affirm that such an ending is possible for homosexuals. But the choice of a final scene remained open. Should it be a glimpse of Maurice and Alec enjoying a life of freedom, outside the bounds of society? Should it be Maurice’s good-humored parting from his faithless former lover, Clive: “Why don’t you stop being shocked and attend to your own happiness?” Christopher wasn’t satisfied with either ending. (The second was the one finally adopted.) He made his own suggestions—as did several of Forster’s other friends. He loved this continuing discussion, simply as a game.
* * *
When Christopher returned to Berlin on April 30, he was anxious to get out of Germany again, as quickly as possible. Since an itinerary of the journey to Greece had already been planned for Erwin by Francis, he accepted this as the way of least effort and decided to go there too—at any rate, for a start. While still in London, he had heard that the Berlin police had arrested three Englishmen, all of them English teachers. (Kathleen’s diary doesn’t tell what the charge against them was; I suspect that it was homosexuality.) Also, Frl. Thurau had written that the police had called to question her about him, saying that this was merely a routine checkup. Christopher’s common sense assured him that there was no need to be seriously afraid. Even if the worst came to the worst, he wouldn’t fall into the hands of the Nazi Storm Troopers; foreigners were dealt with by the police, who treated you with respect for your civil rights. They would merely inform him that he was an undesirable alien and expel him from a country which he was only too eager to leave.
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