Underneath all this, great love, however.
The climate in this place changes so often it seems positively neurotic. Rain and sunshine every day. The pink blossom out everywhere and the vivid green leaves of spring. I rather hate the city at present, because of my cold. But this house is nice and we are right by the Heath; and up here there is little dirt and the air is clean.
Enough for a start. I just wanted to get the complaints off my chest. Already there’s plenty else to report.
April 16. Mood much more cheerful—no doubt I’ll be as variable as the weather here. My cold is over. I am getting a board to put under the bed tomorrow, so that both Don and I can be comfortable. Don has done some quite good work on the two portraits of me and is now doing a couple of self-portraits. We don’t get out as much as I should like, but our life here seems very snug. I must start going to the gym again soon, or I’ll lose what little I gained in California. (This typewriter continues to be a bastard.)
After a couple of talks with Sutro the England Made Me project is still up in the air. And of course I don’t really want to do it. I don’t really want to do the Berlin musical either. But that is not something to be admitted to yet; one most important consideration is, how much money is coming from M.’s estate. I shall see about this in a few days. Also, maybe on Tuesday, I’ll get to hear what Edward thinks of my novel. That has number one priority. I must try to have it ready as soon as I can. Right now, I feel no interest in it whatsoever.
I had supper with Stephen the other night. The chief impression I got from him was weariness. He is only enthusiastic about Matthew;174 hates England because it is so dark; wants to get a job in Athens; is sick of the eternal need to make money. But as always he had a couple of bitchy jokes which made me laugh. When he was on tour with Angus Wilson, Angus used to get him to speak first, then rose and said, “Of course, we young writers don’t agree with Mr. Spender.” Stephen thinks Chester [Kallman] is a bad influence on Wystan’s work, has diverted him into the area of cleverness and private camp jokes.
Don seems more vulnerable, more nervous but also more alive here. He is like a burning fuse, almost; a fuse that is burning eagerly toward the point of explosion.
April 19. The weather is enchanting and quite as warm as Santa Monica on a mild day. Blossom blowing about in the street. I would really be about as happy as possible, if it weren’t for the Cuban crisis.175 I am also getting shooting pains down at the bottom of my spine. I wonder if this is because I have found a gym and it doesn’t want to go to it? The gym is on Oxford Street, and one of its managers is a nice boy who worked for five years on Long Island as a tree surgeon. The place is too small and crowded—at any rate during the lunch hour, which was when I visited it—and there is a stinky red carpet on the floor which you feel has absorbed all the sweat and athlete’s foot available; but it is probably the best to be found around this city.
Yesterday, I went down to see a Mr. Smith at a firm called Glyn Mills and Company on Lombard Street. He is in charge of the money from M.’s estate. It seems that Mr. Sidebotham wildly overestimated the amount that [my brother] Richard and I will get. He said the total capital was £20,000; Mr. Smith says it is £14,000! Still and all, I still think I may get about $15,000 after deductions, which is not to be sneezed at. And Mr. Smith gave me £75 right there on the spot; it was the interest which had accrued on my half-share since M.’s death.
Nothing more from Sutro. And now Tony Richardson is making frantically like he wants to do a film with me. This I’ll believe when the contract has been signed and the money paid down. Tony’s friend George Goetschius is said to be about to have a nervous breakdown and to need religion (from me, of course!); but Don and I suspect that this is largely Tony’s mischief. He is fuller of it than ever, here. Right now he is filming A Taste of Honey in a yard in Chelsea and really in his element. I can see that this must be a dream life for him; and this kind of sloppy informal cheerful friendly bohemian movie work is certainly very appealing. The only trouble is, Tony is absolutely bent on upsetting the life pattern of everyone he comes in contact with, just for the sake of upsetting it. Right now, he is planning to take us off to the South of France or Italy at the end of May, so we can write the film there, in a week!
Richard is apt to come up to London the weekend after next, with his friend Alan [Bradley]. Well, that’s all right.
Edward came up yesterday to see me. Sunburned from being in the Isle of Wight for his holiday, but very fat and I think not at all well. He complained of a razor cut on his face which has festered and he says that all his cuts and scratches do that. He was rather dazed by some antibiotics he had taken; and maybe this was partly why he seemed lukewarm and almost unwilling to discuss my novel. He has only reread “Mr. Lancaster” and now reverses the criticisms he made of it; criticisms which I agree with. Otherwise, he seemed concerned only with the tiniest details.
Still and all, these details are of value. For example, at the end of “Mr. Lancaster,” he hadn’t liked “most of the time, thank God, we suffer quite stupidly and unreflectingly, like the animals.” (I’m quoting this from memory.) He found it sententious. And when I suggested “thank goodness” instead of “thank God” he said that changed the whole tone of the passage. And it does. And I feel convinced it’s better that way. Again, he is bothered by the treatment of Hell and the doctrine of reincarnation in “Paul.” As far as Hell is concerned, I’m sure I have only to make it clear that I don’t mean the Christian Hell—and again he is right, because I don’t. Well, we are to meet again soon, preferably after he has reread the rest of the book.
Next year, he plans to retire and start writing. But he does not dare admit this to himself, lest the writer’s block shuts down on him again. He has to pretend he is just playing at writing. Really, I ought not to be so selfish and expect him to bother much about my novel. Because of course getting on with his own work must seem a desperately urgent matter, at his age, with so much ahead to do. I do sincerely feel this. And, in a way, I am actually more concerned to please Don than Edward. But Don, too, is desperate about his work and can’t be expected to spend all his free hours concentrating on the novel. So the moral is, I’d better get on with it myself.
Miscellaneous: The youths of the city wore, and still wear, very long-pointed shoes called “winkle-pickers.” But these are now going out of fashion in favor of blunt-toed shoes. But the fashion for long long hair seems constant; great fuzzy heads of curls. Sometimes from behind you can’t tell a boy from a girl. . . . Overheard (or did I imagine it?) on one of the streets near here. A boy of maybe ten talking to his mother: “He was joking when he was six”. . . . The utter fatalistic patience of everyone when a line has to be formed or a train or bus waited for. You feel the wartime mentality still very strongly here. . . . The smallness of Hampstead. The steep little brick streets. The tiny murderous purring cars and motorcycles, always ridden by learners with a big L,176 it seems. They ride straight at you and no shit. You have to jump. . . . In general, life here seems tacky and lively and the people radiate a friendliness and willingness; all except for a shopkeeper or official type, which makes a face at you as if you had asked for the impossible and unspeakable.
From Oscar Wilde and the Black Douglas by the (present) Marquess of Queensberry: an extract from a letter written by Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas in the summer of 1897 when he was at Berneval in Normandy after his release from prison—
“André Gide’s book fails to fascinate me. The egoistic note is, of course, and always has been to me, the prime ultimate of note of modern art, but to be an Egoist one must have an Ego. It is not everyone who says ‘I, I’ who can enter the Kingdom of Art.”177
April 28. It is just three weeks, practically to the hour, since I arrived in London. And, of course, it feels like three months. In many ways I am already utterly habituated—to the maddeningly faithless weather, to the endless taxi-riding (with drivers who quite often try to gyp you), to the starchy food, to the
claustrophobic tube, to the general cheerful tackiness. There is much that is lovable here but thank God it is not my home. Never do I cease to give thanks I left it.
Don started again at the Slade, the day before yesterday. We have had several more or less frantic outbursts about his painting since my arrival, and there will be many more. I try to reassure him and above all to point out how masochistic most of his scruples are, and he sees this and blames himself and begs me to keep reminding him of this. I will, of course. I can even do it without much strain when I am feeling well. When I am not—when this place and the weather and the situation of not-being-in-California get me down, then I feel it is too much and I am apt to be impatient and sulk. Oh, but we’ll get through all right. I cling to japam. (One day, since I began, I have missed—and God knows why, just sheer tamasik178 forgetfulness.) It is very significant that, the other day, Don asked me if I am still making japam for him, and I was able to answer yes. So it means something to him, too.
A great reassurance is that, following talks with Edward, I have made a really substantial beginning with the rewrite of “Mr. Lancaster”—and in many ways this was the biggest of the problems to be solved. I think I have seen how to open the series so that the whole book’s purpose is announced and justified—at least, justified sufficiently; to justify too much would be fatal.
Nothing from Sutro about his film. Nothing from Tony Richardson about his. No other work news of any kind. Well, good.
Meanwhile, Cuba simmers, and de Gaulle is getting ready to shoot the rebel generals.179 And poor dear little Gagarin seems already almost forgotten.180 A lot certainly has been happening, these last three weeks!
Have seen lots of friends and lots of plays—but somehow I am not in the mood to write about any of that. Another day, perhaps—
May 3. Today I finished more or less the revisions on “Mr. Lancaster,” and that’s quite an achievement because it will probably have been the most difficult one to do. Otherwise I’m dull. It’s this weather—how I loathe the greyness! I’ll be glad to get out of this country and stop drinking so much and staying up so late. Perhaps I am just getting old, but I feel very little joy in any of these meetings. I go through the motions of being glad to see old friends, like Rupert Doone, Robert Medley, Freddy Ashton, and I am—in a way. But still, they are motions. I only really enjoy myself with someone like Jonathan Preston. Oh shit—why am I writing this? I’m just sulking because I’ve forced myself to write in this diary and I didn’t want to. All right then, I won’t.
May 15. I’m ashamed of the petulance of the last entry. Not that it’s so important. So I am not having an utter ball—is that so terrible? I came here to be with Don and here I shall stay, as long as I’m useful and needed. In any case, I know I would be desperately unhappy inside a week if I were to go back to California without him. And I am happy, just being with him, most of the time, and when I’m not, it’s really because he isn’t around. Neither Jonathan nor anybody else is possible as a substitute.
As long as we’re on this rather boring subject, let me just say this. I realize now, on this trip, that my longing to be away from England had really nothing to do with a mother complex or any other facile psychoanalytical explanation. No, here is something that stifles and confines me. I wish I could define it. Maybe the island is just too damned small. I feel unfree, cramped. I long for California. All right, you stupid old horse, so you long for California. Be thankful you can get back there sooner or later, and meanwhile, busy yourself, look pleasant, be pleasant, and make japam. (I have at least kept this up, including the japam for Don. Mostly, it seems utterly compulsive, and my memory plays me the bitchiest tricks, only reminding me to do it late in the afternoon or early evening. But I do do it—even sometimes going into the downstair toilet before going to bed, and making it while Don, having finished brushing his teeth, calls down “Dub-Dub?”)
When I remember that “Dub-Dub,” I suddenly realize what an idiot I am, to neglect, even for an instant, to value my luck and happiness. . . . Just imagine if anything happened to him! I suppose that’s my trouble. I can’t. It’s as unthinkable, and as possible, as the H-bomb.
But I really opened this book today because there’s something I have to discuss with myself—a problem connected with my novel. All this time I have been revising it, and yesterday I actually gave the rewritten version of “Mr. Lancaster” to the typist. Edward hasn’t seen it, but Don read it and as Don disliked the first version—the only part of the book he did dislike—I was delighted when he liked the revision so much and felt I had met all his objections. I really believe it is one hundred percent better.
However, now we come to “Ambrose,” and “Ambrose” opens up a basic question: what does Christopher learn about himself on the island, and why does he leave it?
Let’s approach this from the beginning.
In “Mr. Lancaster,” Christopher falls in love with Germany and resolves to go and live in Berlin.
He goes to Berlin, works the nightlife out of his system and becomes a political puritan.
At the beginning of “Ambrose,” he has had a reaction from this. He realizes, he says, that he has never been really involved in German political life, only an excited spectator. He is going to Greece for kicks—because it promises more excitement than going back to England.
All right, he goes to the island. The island isn’t the right place for him. Why?
Because he’s restless? Yes. He doesn’t belong anywhere; that’s what he finds out. He’s on the same side as Ambrose and Geoffrey but he can’t live their life.
Wystan objected to Christopher’s reasons for leaving the island; the urge to go back and compete with Timmy North.181 I certainly see that some of his lines are wrong—when, for example, he says he used to care about getting on and being someone. . . . But is this a wrong thought or merely a crude bit of phrasing?
May 18. Don’s birthday. We are to meet later and go to see this review, On the Fringe—no, Beyond the Fringe182—which everyone says is so marvellous. And then later, maybe, go to see Garbo in Marie Walewska.183
I have been working all day revising “Waldemar.” (I took “Ambrose” to Rashid Karapiet yesterday to be typed.) I alternate between excitement—feeling this is good—and feeling it’s so sloppily written. There is something wrong with the ending of “Waldemar.” I have to explain why Waldemar’s leaving makes me feel I am free to go to America. Or, if I don’t feel that, I mustn’t say so.
A grey cold day. Grey feelings. So often, here, I get sad as a pig. Two days ago, Don had one of his outbursts; because he had been badly treated by John Gielgud. It was miserable. My feet ached. And we walked around and around; he was raging and bawling me out. Am I really a masochist, to put up with all this shit? Or what? I hardly know. I hardly know anything. I feel only partly alive; dull, old. I’m getting a kind of senile indifference. No—that’s untrue. It’s nothing new. Just a phase.
What do I want? Nothing. Just to be quiet and snug and to lie in the sun. But not to be fussed and made to go to Sicily to do it. Tony Richardson still hasn’t gotten in touch with us.
June 6. A nearly three weeks’ lapse. And tomorrow it’ll be two months since I arrived here.
Yesterday, I sent off one of the typescripts of Down There on a Visit to Curtis Brown in New York, and another to Dodie and Alec Beesley. The third has been with Alan White of Methuen over the weekend, and already I feel concerned because I haven’t heard from him. Obviously he must have doubts and is showing it to someone else.
Well, I can’t help that. It certainly has its faults. Parts of it—particularly “Paul”—are still sloppily written and I must tighten them up before they go to press. But I feel confident that the whole thing does add up to something, and that it has an authenticity of direct experience and is altogether superior to the slickness and know-how and inner falsity of World in the Evening. If people don’t like it, I am sincerely sorry; but already I feel in my bones that I shall never repudia
te it or have to apologize for it. So we’ll see.
Today, we’ll probably hear a very important decision: is Don to get a show of his drawings at the Redfern Galleries? If he is, that would of course be a quite considerable triumph—a justification in the world’s eyes (and after all, let’s face it, it is only the world that demands a justification) of his whole stay in England. But, if he has this show, it will probably be in October or at any rate sometime before Christmas, and Don will want me to be there with him; so the question will come up, shall we go back to California for a couple of months and then return, or shall we stick around here. And in either case I shall have to cancel my half promise to teach at Los Angeles State College next semester.
And now, having finished with the novel, at least for the time being, what am I going to do next?
Well, there’s Ramakrishna. They’ll be needing another chapter for the magazine before long and it would be good for me to get back to that. Good discipline. And a good irritant. Toiling at the Ramakrishna is just the way to irritate the Muse into providing me with a new idea for a novel or play. Of course, I do have a ready-made idea and a great deal of material for a short story contained in the hashish-taking episode which I cut out of Down There on a Visit. But I must wait until I’m absolutely certain that this should be cut out.184 Cutting it out was entirely Don’s idea, and, as of now, I do believe that he was absolutely right. The hashish scene deflects the interest from Paul to me at a time when we should be centering down on Paul for the final scene. In this sense, it is a coyness, a flirtation with the reader, and therefore wrong.
June 7. Dr. Schwartz, the collector,185 bought the manuscript of my novel from me at the Big-Boy cafeteria on Charing Cross Road yesterday afternoon. He appears to carry all his money in a bag, along with first editions. He produced fifty pounds and paid me, and then gave me an extra pound for autographing books and an extra ten shillings for taxi fare. When he talks to you on the phone, he always ends up by saying “chin-chin.”
The Sixties: Diaries:1960-1969 Page 12
