Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  Doris, Sarada’s “convert,” now comes in every evening. She has brushed her hair back into a knot, in imitation of Sarada’s, and now looks charming. She might be a younger sister of Heinz.

  A blue jay, with a particularly harsh note, has gotten terribly on Swami’s nerves. He throws stones at it, jumping into the air with a little hop and nearly overbalancing. Amiya and Sudhira like the bird, however, because he enrages Dhruva, whom they both dislike. Dhruva barks frantically at the jay, who perches just out of reach and screeches insults.

  May 30. It’s high time we had an inspection:

  Well, boys—we’ve been in this place three months and three weeks. Any complaints?

  Oh, no, Sir!

  Nothing at all? Food all right?

  It’s marvellous.

  Funny. … I thought I heard some talk yesterday evening. Those parathas163 Asit cooked. Didn’t someone say they tasted like cardboard boxes?

  Oh well—that was just Asit—

  I see. … Just Asit … How’s the sleeping accommodation?

  Well, Sir, we don’t want to complain—

  Seems to me you were complaining yesterday night, all right.

  Well—after all, Sir—that’s only temporary. It’s not that we’re fussy. It’s just—well, we hate to see that great flabby Catholic priest taking advantage of Swami’s hospitality to run around after that girl with her spindly legs, monopolizing our room and filling it with cigarette smoke—and then there’s Web—well, of course, on weekdays, we wouldn’t say a word—but on holidays it hardly seems quite fair that a high-school kid young enough to be our son should have the selfishness and stupidity to make that clock ring at five, when he doesn’t even intend to get up—and what’s more—

  NOW LISTEN—why did you come to this place at all? Was it to be comfortable? Was it to have your feelings considered? Was it for the sake of your writing? Was it for the food? What makes you suppose that, because you couldn’t handle your relationship with Vernon, all your problems could be solved simply by not having a Vernon in your life? Do you see any future for yourselves in the way of life you used to lead? Can you think of anything really constructive you could be doing, except this?

  No, Sir. We can’t.

  Well then, for God’s sake pull yourselves together.

  Yesterday, I cycled out to Beverly Hills. Denny met me there, to pick up the bicycle he’s bought from Hans Ohrt. We rode around for a while, and then Denny suggested we should look in on Lena Horne, the colored singer. She has a little house just above the Sunset Strip. They have become great friends. Denny opened the door and shouted, “Lena darling, I’ve brought a friend in to take a shower.” Lena seemed to find this perfectly natural. She is a very nice girl, not in the least grand or affected. She hadn’t gotten out of bed, although this was the middle of the afternoon, and she didn’t get coy about our seeing her with untidy hair and no makeup on.

  This evening, I feel curiously exhausted. Swami, Web, Franz Dispecker and Mrs. Nixon are sitting outside on the steps, talking about reincarnation. Mrs. Nixon said dreamily, “But, eventually, they’d all be merged, wouldn’t they?”

  (Mrs. Nixon was a garish but rather sympathetic southern lady who was one of the most regular members of Swami’s congregation. She specialized in weird hats, in strange rich garments, and in flower decorations, often very ingenious. She had travelled all over the world. Her daughter Phoebe, a very attractive dark girl, used to help us with the secretarial work from time to time.

  Franz Dispecker and his wife came from Switzerland. He was a banker by profession and quite wealthy. At first he seemed like a typical fussy, bossy Prussian Jew, but he was serious about Vedanta and very good-natured, and the whole family gradually became very fond of him. He made horrible puns. His wife was much younger than he was, very chic and feminine and clinging, but nice too.)

  A glorious evening—except for the army planes, which are becoming more and more of a nuisance, power-diving all around. Web claims to have driven the blue jay away for good, with a slingshot.

  June 3. He was wrong. The jay is tormenting Dhruva again, swooping at him and pecking tufts of hair from his tail. Another bad night, on account of the alarm clock. I’ve screwed myself up to tell Web that it’s not to ring until six on schooldays, and on holidays not at all. I haven’t told him yet, however. Merely making the decision required several hundred rehearsals, and the rest of the nervous energy I had in reserve for the day. Now I won’t be able to do any work at all. When I don’t sleep, I’m simply not quite sane.

  June 7. And now, only four days later, everything is changed: almost absurdly so. Swami has gone away. He left last night, with George, for the East, because Swami Akhilananda is seriously ill in Providence. He won’t be back for at least six weeks. Meanwhile, I have moved into his room. I am very conscious of his presence here—practically apologizing to him each time I use the toilet. Hope I continue to feel that way. It will help me a great deal.

  June 21. Two weeks whizzed by—probably because I’m feeling much better about everything, particularly sex. Hardly any trouble since I’ve been in Swami’s room. Sarada left last Tuesday, to visit her father in New Mexico. Hayne left last Wednesday, to work in a box factory in Beverly Hills: Peggy decided to deal with him—it was largely my fault—and told him in no uncertain terms that it was up to him to clear out of here and support himself. Web and his sister Jean left today, to visit their family in Avondale, Arizona—such a wonderfully unsuitable name for the Far West! Roger Spencer is here, with Laurie Fallas, the girl he plans to marry. She’s about fifteen years younger than he, a Quaker and [seems unintelligent]. Very snooty because we don’t live poorly enough. They are out all day, discussing their relationship, which is to be without sex. No, I mustn’t begin to sneer. What I can’t sympathize with, I needn’t notice. Who made me the judge?

  Denny has been living for some time in a house in a bungalow colony on Descanso Drive, two-thirds of the way downtown. It’s rather attractive: the buildings are on a flight of wide steps, with a big meadow at the top of the hill, overlooking the city. Collins George shares the place with him, and another colored boy named Al is there most of the time. Denny is half in and half out of the CPS camp; that is to say, his discharge hasn’t been made official yet, but they’re obviously letting him go. He spends nearly all of his time with Negroes, and his conversation is full of their slang. He seems to be having a lot of fun, and he still keeps up his studies—which is a wonder, for life at Descanso Drive is practically a nonstop party. Lots of C.O.s come down from camp and sleep on the floor, every weekend, and mix peacefully with sailors on leave who are stranded in the city without a bed.

  Wrote to Morgan. Walked up the hill with Dhruva. Fleecy clouds, very warm: earthquake weather, people say. The hills look like my idea of Italy, with their white houses and terraced gardens. The ocean grey and sad in the distance. The oil fields like a crowd of calvarys, on the bare ugly heights behind Long Beach. Nothing anywhere but God, and not much of Him today. A sardonic-looking man, in one of the gardens, tossed a pebble at Dhruva and hit him: Dhruva scarcely noticed. “He don’t scare easy, does he?” the man said to me.

  June 23. Had supper at Chasen’s, with Lesser Samuels, his wife and his daughter Helene. The Samuelses eat out nearly every night, at Chasen’s or the Derby: Lesser is earning a thousand a week, and they can’t get a cook. The atmosphere of pre-inflation is curious; nearly everybody has heaps of money, the restaurants are packed, and there is less and less to buy in the stores. Women stand in line for shoes. After dinner, Lesser and I talked about the Gaumont-British days. He told me a lot about Saville, and about picture making in general which will be very valuable for my story. I hope to restart it, now that the magazine has gone off to the printers.

  June 24. Asit got a job yesterday, at a photographic studio downtown, earning $140 a month. He is really delighted. When there’s nothing special to do, he’s the laziest creature on earth, but when he has to work, he’ll wor
k like a horse. The girls tell me he was just the same when he was studying for his degree at USC.164

  July 1. Who should saunter in this afternoon but Richard Thom, with the wire gone from around his teeth, and his hair cropped short? He wore a blue navy denim shirt, blue jean pants and a seaman’s sweater. He was three weeks in the merchant marine, on Catalina Island, and then got himself derolled, because they taught him nothing except cleaning toilets. Now he has a job as usher at the Warner Theater. He plans to stay there two or three months, till he can join the Marine Corps. As soon as we look at each other we always begin to laugh, like two people who are bluffing each other at poker. Only, at the same time, I get the uneasy feeling that maybe Rich isn’t bluffing. It’s hard to explain just exactly what I mean by this. But Rich sometimes gives you a look which is disconcertingly mature, indulgent almost as though he were a grown-up playing with a child.

  Here’s a poem I just wrote. Heaven knows why. It came to me all in a lump, while I was in the shrine room.

  On His Queerness

  When I was young and wanted to see the sights,

  They told me: “Cast an eye over the Roman Camp

  If you care to,

  But plan to spend most of your day at the Aquarium—

  Because, after all, the Aquarium—

  Well, I mean to say, the Aquarium—

  Till you’ve seen the Aquarium you ain’t seen nothing.”

  So I cast an eye over

  The Roman Camp—

  And that old Roman Camp,

  That old, old Roman Camp

  Got me

  Interested.

  So that now, near closing time,

  I find that I still know nothing—

  And am not even sorry that I know nothing—

  About fish.

  July 3. Cycled down to the beach with Denny and his friend Johnny Goodwin. Johnny’s handsome body has turned skinny, and his face is lined and ravaged, as if by intense hunger. His blond hair is all faded. His nose turns up as though sniffing a chronically nasty smell. He and Denny are like brothers. In many ways, Johnny is simply Denny with money. But he’s quite talented and intelligent, if he weren’t such a dilettante. Maybe Denny would be nicer with money and Johnny without it.

  I left them in midafternoon and went around to the Viertels’. They are having another financial crisis. Salka has left Metro, and the projected trip with Garbo to England to make St. Joan probably won’t be till next spring—if at all. Garbo was there today, in unbecoming shorts; much worried because they had a fruit stain on them. Berthold, working hard on his play, looked much older; rather like the late self-portraits of Rembrandt. He told me—as a fact—that Peggy is going to get married very soon; and added, rather nastily, that this is an excellent thing, because a beautiful woman who is still young shouldn’t waste her life with religion. Berthold still bitterly resents my retirement to Ivar Avenue, and keeps hitting at it in all sorts of ways. I avoid answering him, as far as I can—or there’d be a row.

  July 4. Up to lunch with Peggy, who is thinner but not looking as badly as I’d expected after her severe attack of flu. She says that Bill Kiskadden has announced that he’s “coming to get her” in a couple of weeks—that she doesn’t know what to do—she’s incapable of any decision—the children will always come first—etc. etc. In other words, it’s definitely settled. Peggy had told the Zinnemanns (who are neighbors of the Viertels on Mabery Road) and the Zinnemanns had told Berthold. Ben doesn’t know yet. Neither does Henwar. I told Peggy I was thoroughly in favor of the idea; and I really am. Peggy’s remarriage will make the children feel ever so much freer—especially now, when they are just growing up.

  July 5. Supper with my agents, Edna and Dan Leonardson, at the Hollywood Hotel. We had met to settle up our accounts, and this led to a most impudent and ridiculous claim that I should pay half the amount it finally cost them to settle with another agent whom they tried to swindle on my account, back in 1939. However, I was in a good humor; so I agreed. (I think it cost me around eighty dollars.)

  Strangely enough, after such a beginning, the evening was really enjoyable. Dan talked about Judaism, Sarah Bernhardt and the old days in Hollywood. The Hollywood Hotel used to be the only smart place in town; it looked across a big orange grove on the opposite side of the street, and there was a horse tram to take you into Los Angeles. Dan is really much more intelligent than Edna, and more sensitive. Edna’s brother has invented some kind of television or radar apparatus, which is highly secret, and which interests the U.S. government. Dan helps him demonstrate it. The two of them are at the disposal of the army, at all times; cars arrive dramatically and whisk them away to airfields; some weeks ago, they were flown up to the Aleutians, to make a test. One day, they may become very rich, but government compensation is very slow in coming: Washington has only just finished paying for the inventions of the last war.

  Dan predicts a new and much more elaborate machine age after the war: larger and lighter automobiles, television in every home, and a portable radio-telephone in every pocket. “It may sound funny for me to say this,” he added, “but I wish we could scrap all these machines.”

  July 6. Chris Wood came around to see me. He looks terribly battered. Paul Sorel has retired to the Coast Inn in Laguna and Gerald has been staying at Rockledge Road—behaving, as Chris put it, “like the British after they’d run Rommel out of Africa.” Apparently, Gerald grew quite skittish in his triumph, and even missed his meditation hours to come swimming with Chris: Chris described Gerald in the water, “like a young demoiselle, with his beard floating on the tops of the waves.”

  Chris wants me to come down and stay with him. I said sure, as long as I don’t have to see Paul. This disappointed him, and I hate to be stuffy, but I know Paul would use my visit for propaganda purposes.

  July 7. Out for a turn around the block before vespers, I met Rich. He looked a real bum, dirty, unshaven and slyer than ever. He has quit his job at the Warner Theater and is going around mowing lawns. He refused supper, because, as he said, he can’t eat here without going into the shrine room first, and he won’t go into the shrine room because he has broken with Ramakrishna. His scruples are the greatest part of his charm.

  A talk with Amiya. We had quite a row last night, because she spoke against Kolisch, which always makes me mad. Today we made it up. Amiya told me that she was so happy when I kissed her goodbye at Glendale Station, when she was leaving for San Francisco. I must never forget this about her: her longing for affection, her loyalty, her struggle to create a family and a home.

  July 8. Another day of concealed idling: that is to say, I was very busy doing everything but my duty. I copied verses from Angelus Silesius165 into my notebook and mowed the front lawn. Cadmus sent me some photographs of his paintings, etc. One of them I shall have to destroy: it excites me rather.

  Swami has wired that he’s coming home on Friday of next week, with George, Madhabi and Swami Vishwananda of Chicago. I’m so afraid I’m going to loathe Madhabi: everything Sudhira tells me about her makes her sound such an utter bitch.

  July 15. Fifteen minutes till vespers, but it’s important that I don’t let any more time go by without making a few notes. The whole family reassembled yesterday, plus Swami Vishwananda and Madhabi.

  Vishwananda is fat, black, jolly, very Indian. He nearly chokes with laughter at his own jokes, and talks Bengali with Swami and Asit. Everything delights him here, especially the food: in Chicago, he can’t get proper curry. His Indianness makes Swami seem Indian too—I realize now how little I usually regard him as an Oriental—and this is slightly disconcerting. Vishwananda is staying in our house, in Web’s room, and Web has moved to the living room, thus producing a new crisis of overcrowding which fills me with jealous possessive jitters: I’m afraid Asit will use “my” washroom and disturb me in the morning. Not that this really makes the least difference—as my fear of being wakened wakes me, in any case, at 5:30, when Asit’s alarm clock is about to
ring. I have a headache now because I haven’t slept properly for the past three nights—or rather, because I have an obsession about insufficient sleep. However, this whole business has got to be settled, once and for all—just as it would have to be settled if I were in camp or in the army. (Isn’t it, perhaps, just because I’m not in camp or the army that this problem arises at this particular time? Do we ever avoid anything?)

  Saw a movie called Stage Door Canteen: the usual saccharine lie, but very moving, just the same, because it is about an actual situation—the loneliness of millions of homeless boys in uniform, and their pitiful gratitude to the hams who so patriotically spare a few minutes of their precious time and invest in some free publicity, in order to entertain them. I kept remembering Wilfred Owen’s lines: “These men are worth / Your tears. You are not worth their merriment.”166 We see the same thing here in Hollywood. The other day, I was driving out to Beverly Hills in the family car and gave a service man a ride. He had a camera with him. I asked him where he wanted to be dropped off. “Oh, anywhere,” he said. Then, lowering his voice with instinctive reverence, he added: “I’m just going to walk around and look at the Homes.”

  July 16. Overstimulated by two and a half cups of coffee, I’ve been running around since breakfast. I just had a talk to Swami, and, as nearly always, he gave me something. I feel such a deep relationship with him. “Love” is too possessive a word to describe it. It is really absence of demand, lack of strain, entire reassurance. I can’t imagine being jealous, as the girls are, when he seems to favor one person; because it’s so obvious that his attitude toward each one of us is special and inalienable. “To divide is not to take away.”

  He touched my cheek with his finger and giggled, because The New Republic had referred to me as a prominent young writer. I told him how free I’ve been from sexual thoughts and fantasies during the past weeks, and he said, “Yes, I saw that in your face yesterday. But don’t get too confident. They will come back.” I also told him that the worship has become so mechanical to me at present that, in future, I only want to do it twice a week. Swami said that freedom from sexual thoughts is more important, anyway, than conscious devotion. As the Catholic writers insist, one mustn’t seek too much emotional satisfaction in prayer. Yes—I know all these things out of books; but until Swami himself points them out to me I never really believe them.