Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  August 20. Sad today—first because it was grey and I couldn’t go on the beach, then because the sun came out and it was too late to go on the beach—and anyhow I didn’t want to, because Don wasn’t home. He has to work today. The Duquettes have some rush job on. They’re certainly exploiting him—giving him nothing interesting to do and no proper training at all—and now I feel just as mad at them as he is.

  Then we’re in this rush to find a place to live and get out of here. And I can’t make up my mind what to do—buy a house now or later. And there’s a fuss brewing about my birthday: Marguerite wants to give a party, but I don’t want anybody at it except the Stravinskys, Salka, and Jo and Ben. I’m so full of resentment, just now. I feel I hate nearly everybody—Gerald, for advising the Huxleys not to let me have mescaline (I’m certain he did)—Marguerite and Harry and Speed for their dreary divorce which drags in everybody else—Peggy for snooting Don (she just sent me a birthday present—essays by Trilling—should I send it back?218)—John van Druten for being such a pompous sanctimonius asshole—Jim Charlton for being such a sponger—and, oh God, when one starts listing spongers!

  The pains in my head have started again.

  August 23. New eruptions of the Brown volcano. Speed called this morning, reporting that Harry threatened him with a gun yesterday and also said he’d shoot Gore (just why, I don’t know). So Speed and Paul are leaving the house. The divorce suit comes up on Thursday. Speed claims that Harry is also very hostile to Don, which worries me. I never quite feel sure that Harry won’t finally do something.

  This morning, Don showed me the ring that Tony designed for him and that the jeweller finally got around to fixing. It’s just awful—looks like the interior decoration of a movie theater. We will have to get another. Tony (Don told me today on the phone) is much upset that we don’t like it. But luckily Beegle agrees with us.

  Appropriately enough, I spent yesterday evening at Sawtelle,219 in the neuropsychiatric division, talking to a small group of the patients about writing. They run their own magazine. I was invited to do this by a young man named Edward Lyons, who is a friend of Ernest Jones220 and works there at occupational therapy.

  The patients—there were only about ten of them—were rather sympathetic. I don’t think any single one of them attended all of the time to what I was saying—and they didn’t pretend to. One read a newspaper for a while. Another kept turning his head aside to giggle to himself. When one of them read a poem aloud, the other poets would drum with their fingers and act bored. Lyons says they are terribly jealous.

  I talked about writing chiefly from an autotherapeutic angle—stressing the insight and relaxation and solution of problems I had found in keeping a diary—even forcing myself to keep one—and how valuable and reassuring it was to reread it later. I quoted D. H. Lawrence’s remark about “Art for my sake.” They liked that. On the whole, I was dissatisfied with myself, but Lyons assured me the talk was a success—neither of the two catatonics had blacked out; and the husky rather nice looking young man with curly hair hadn’t become violent—before being committed, he had beaten up both his parents and broken his brother-in-law’s arm with judo. Lyons had to take one of the patients back to his ward—he was sometimes suicidal. Meanwhile I remained with three of the others. “Who’s he?” one of them asked, looking at Lyons. “I think he’s a janitor,” one of the others answered. And they snickered. This was probably a joke.

  August 24. Yesterday afternoon, Speed called again to say that Harry has been hospitalized—has apparently committed himself voluntarily to some kind of mental home for treatment. Harry’s agent is the only person who knows where he is, and he won’t tell. He just passes on the message that Harry doesn’t wish to see either Marguerite or Speed. He is supposed to be going away for a week only—but of course he can’t really know that. What’s wonderful is that at least he admits he’s sick.

  Speed also says that Caskey has been heard from. He’s in Montana—working in a coal mine with this friend of his who builds the storm cellars—the Oklahoman.

  Last night I had supper at the Knopfs’ and Alfred Knopf was there, visiting them. I rather liked him—he is a chipmunk person with a round belly, a curving snout and bright eyes. His manner, as I once said of G. B. Smith,221 is cold and friendly. Eddie pointed to the way he sits in a chair and said, “He’s the most relaxed person I know.” As Eddie had let his wine cellar get empty because they’re about to move, Alfred went out in search of a good liquor store and came back with a bottle of Montrachet, 1953. 1952 and 3 are good years for white wine, he says. Nevertheless, the chicken was undercooked, as usual.

  Alfred talked about the national parks (he’s on some commission or other) and particularly Dinosaur, where he has twice frustrated the attempts of a power company to put in a dam and thus ruin one of the most beautiful canyons.

  Jessie Marmorston, who was also there, told me that she got a chemist’s report on mescaline, and that it’s definitely harmful. It can injure the eyes, even after a long interval of time.

  Today I had lunch with Jim Maloney, the soulful young agent who is with MCA222 and believes in Buddhism. He told me how he had picked up a cat injured by an automobile, and how it hadn’t scratched him and he had communicated with it. Also how, when he was twenty-three: “I decided that I was going to run Me.” Such a handsome Irish face, ascetically lean-cheekboned like a young priest’s, with the well-formed nose slightly arched, the grey eyes, the dark wavy hair low peaked on the forehead, the small full-lipped mouth—the face of a perfectly humorless natural bore.

  Gore has started working out at the gym. He wanted to go and see Harry and make it up with him. So I had to tell him that Harry’s in hospital. Meanwhile, I talked on the phone to Harry’s agent, who seemed not nearly such a skunk as Marguerite has been making out. He’d been to the hospital, today. Harry is not to see anyone till next week.

  I also talked to Marguerite, who plans to leave for Reno very soon and get a divorce.

  August 25. Don is working late at the Duquettes’, and I’m home, getting steadily drunk on vodka and tonics, and enjoying it.

  All sorts of good resolutions, on the eve of my birthday—to avoid tension, “making faces,” useless resentments—to try to make myself more useful. I really do feel the bitterest regret for all the years I’ve wasted. Life is such an amazing experience. Every instant lost—is lost.

  I called Swami this morning, and asked for his blessing. He said: “Live many years—and I’ll watch you from heaven.” He also said that he was so pleased with Swami Vandanananda, and that he would look after the society efficiently after he (Prabhavananda) was gone.

  I feel such a gratitude for Don. And yet, of course, I must be prepared to see him pass on to other experiences. But it has been a great happiness, watching him grow up.

  Altogether—I must say—I feel gratitude. My life, to this point, has been truly fortunate. I blame myself for nearly all of the glooms. It has been extraordinary, how I’ve been spared real suffering. “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” And yet—should one be glad of that? Perhaps the greatest disaster is not to have suffered?

  Looking at my hands. Such bold lines—but broken.

  August 26. 3:50 p.m. and still drunk—due to a breakfast of bouillon and champagne—Don’s idea. We drank two bottles—the good Roger, and the very inferior U.S. kind. And Don gave me an Olivetti typewriter. And everything was as wonderful as mescaline could have made it.

  Lunch with Gore, who told me (a) that he’s thinking of getting married (which is amazing, because I dreamed the other night that Gore came in and said: “I’m married”) and (b) that Tinker is Jewish. We went on the set of The Last Hunt and met John O’Hara,223 who actually remembered meeting me that time in the bar of the old Romanoff’s. I don’t know if he remembered how badly he behaved. He has just finished a novel.

  I’ve napped all afternoon but can’t seem to get sober. And I really dread the party tonight, when I’ll have to get
drunk again—though the second night is usually easier.

  August 31. One of the hottest, stickiest days I’ve ever known out here. There’s so much to write in this book and I have so little time or energy to do it.

  First of all, that sensational party on my birthday. Thinking I was going to the Duquettes’ for a drink—and Don throwing open the door and there they were—everybody—including the Stravinskys who Don had pretended were out of town—all with champagne classes raised—in the utterly transformed main room of the studio, now turned into a theater and looking absolutely beautiful—thanks to the day and night toiling of Don, Jimmy Daugherty and the Duquettes.

  Then frantic house hunting and the final decision to take the place out at Trancas,224 though God knows how we’ll ever commute. And how I’ll get the script written in time to go away. It’s really tough. There are still at least fifty pages of it to do.

  September 1. Still this boiling heat.

  Last night, we took Marguerite to the Luau—because she leaves today for Las Vagas, to establish residence for a divorce. Harry, who came out of hospital for my birthday party, appears to think he has had sufficient treatment. Anyhow, he’s around again.

  Perhaps I was cross because Don had suggested Marguerite’s coming and, after all, I didn’t particularly want to see her, and she was an hour late and the bill was thirty dollars. Anyhow, I was cross. And later I said […] I never wanted to see her or Speed again, because they run around with the Hartfords—which is disingenuous, to say the least. Later, we went swimming in the ocean, still full of people at 10:30, and I felt tired and went to bed while Don packed. In the night I woke and was ashamed of myself because I’m so resentful and mean and full of hate toward all. And now I’m going to try and be better.

  The funny thing is—despite this heat—I did a huge amount of work.

  September 5. Saying goodbye to the sun—from 29938 Pacific Coast Highway—is one of my favorite outdoor sports. The sun turned into a red-hot jar with a lid. The gulls were raiding the yellow garbage cans. On our gate is written: Prenez garde le chien225—why?

  I just record that we arrived, on Friday [the] 2nd and that Jo and Ben were here the first day; and that Salka is staying till tomorrow with her granddaughter, Christine. Salka says that Garbo could never have made a talkie without her. Salka always coached her.

  September 6. I started the foregoing in the hope of writing something interesting, intuitive or frank while half-drunk. Christine interrupted me. But the reason I was half-drunk was that I was, and am, extremely worried about Don. After being his ordinary charming self almost unbrokenly since my birthday, he suddenly gave way to sulks because Richie—a boy we met at Johnny Darrow’s the day we heard of this house from Ray Ohge—suggested bringing a friend here to meet me yesterday. These sulks of Don’s verge on hysteria—and the worst of it is, they make me angry, so I want to see him whipped out of them—which means that I’m worse than useless around him. I really don’t see how this situation can possibly be corrected unless he makes a big effort—quite aside from the effort I must make.

  It’s a shame, because we might be happy in this house in quite a special kind of way. It’s a strange place, full of the atmosphere of childhood and the beach, and there are all kinds of touches of imagination (Ray Ohge’s, I suppose) which make it strange and different—the classical statue on the lamp pedestal so rightly-wrongly clashing with the un-chichi cozy stuffiness of the bedrooms—the port and starboard lights on the front gate with the inscription in incorrect French—the two armchairs in the big window overlooking the beach which face each other, like seats in a train.

  I race on with The Wayfarer. Today I got Siddhartha out of the palace and on the way to the river of renunciation. Don is with his folks and still out (10:55 p.m.). He probably won’t get back till very late—it’s a long, long drive—twenty-five minutes from Santa Monica Canyon. I like the distance—out here you are in another country—you might as well be in Santa Barbara or Laguna Beach. It feels very lonely, although the lifeguard station is only a hundred yards away and occupied all the time. I’ve been having supper with the Masselinks—talking of the old days and how the landlord has raised their rent five dollars—$3 8 to $43—and how odd it is that Peggy and I have drifted apart.

  September 8. It’s 7:10 a.m. I got up at dawn and went swimming—the ocean, to my surprise, was warm. Now I’m sitting on one of the “train” armchairs by the big window. There are tiny fruit flies on the grapes on the table beside me.

  A headache from the drinking we did last night. Ted [Bachardy] and Bob Hoover came out to visit us, and they’re still here, asleep. Bob is quite a nice boy, but he doesn’t understand the first thing about Ted. He expects Ted to be capable of love—when the whole point is that Ted is sick because he isn’t capable of love—or his incapacity for love is a symptom of his sickness, however you want to put it.

  September 10. Listening to Marlene Dietrich singing the German version of “Miss Otis Regrets,” on the portable. Jimmy Daugherty, the colored boy who works for the Duquettes, is staying with us. Tony and Beegle Duquette stayed last night. Tony made me for a birthday present a dried baby alligator painted up to represent Diane, with a pole with a fish on it and a fish skeleton tied to its head. It’s a real “rats” joke—such as would have delighted Edward and me in 1923.226 I want to get an engraved metal plaque for it, reading: “Miss Lana Turner attempting to interpret the role of Diane.”

  The cleaning lady is very elegant in her ideas. She arranged Don’s passport, an envelope with government bonds, and a copy of Conrad’s Youth on top of each other, like magazines in a dentist’s office.

  September 11. A new symptom to worry about—a small lump in my mouth which prevents me from putting in my lower bridgework. I’ll try to see Dr. Dickinson early tomorrow.

  Jo and Ben were here last night—chiefly because Jo wanted to talk to Michael Barrie, who was having supper with us and Jimmy Daugherty, about the terrible shock she has just received—the manufacturers turned her new “line” down flat. I’ve long had the idea that Michael should be her manager, and she certainly needs someone. Michael was also telling us how we should see an investment firm and get more for our money. Perhaps I’ll try this, if all goes well.

  September 14. Well, the symptoms didn’t prove to be anything much. The lump had been there all the time—it was just that the bridgework had “settled.”

  Yesterday I went downtown to apply for a new passport. It does seem as if we really shall leave in October sometime. The cruel little Chinese named Mr. Ralph Thling who bullies all applicants was almost kind to me—thanks to the sponsorship of Metro’s Mary Clark in the contract department. As ill luck would have it, yesterday was Los Angeles’s all-time smog record day. My eyes burned so much I thought I would have to stop driving. I was still crying as I drove past the dingy little church on Washington where they had the funeral service for Maria Huxley. (Aldous is in town—I heard this at Metro from Rita Allen, the woman who’s going to produce Aldous’s play of The Genius and the Goddess this winter. They wanted to have Ingrid Bergman in it, but she refused because she’s doing films in France—all this is in parenthesis to say that Aldous has never called, which hurts my feelings a little.)

  Am writing this at 10:20 p.m., while waiting for Don to return from seeing his mother. He has been in a bad state, lately—half kidding but half meaning it, he keeps expressing his jealousy because he hasn’t got people like Gore, Jim Maloney, Quentin Kelly etc. to have lunch with. It’s hard for me to take this kind of jealousy (or perhaps it’s more envy) seriously—but I always end by having to. I only hope that our trip to Europe will make things better. At least, Don’ll be taken much more seriously in England, and will get a lot more notice.

  This evening, I was up at Vedanta Place. Both the swamis were there. Prabhavananda looked very well and happy. He said: “I get so bored with philosophy nowadays—even Shankara.” Then he told how, this morning in the shrine, he had been so inte
nsely aware of the presence of Swamiji and Maharaj. “If there hadn’t been anyone else there, I’d have bawled.” John Yale (now renamed Prema) also looked well and much more attractive—with a sunburn from being up at Santa Barbara and a short haircut, after taking his brahmachari vows.

  Ben and Jo have decided to take a short trip to Hawaii—as a relief from their present spell of bad luck, and in order to look around for any business prospects in Jo’s line. They’ll only be gone about three weeks, but we may just miss their return.

  Gore Vidal has been asked to write a movie about the Dreyfus case. Speed has jobs at NBC and at Columbia. The watchword is—success is not to be sneered at. It’s okay to earn show-business money.

  More about Swami. He says his favorite chapter in the Gita is the chapter on devotion.227 He says: “I used to want visions and ecstasies—now I don’t care. I only pray to love God.” He says: “I don’t care to lecture now. But when I start talking, I enjoy myself. I enjoy talking about God.” (I thought to myself—he’s like a young man in love.)

  Swami said: “Webster Milam came to me the other day. He said to me, ‘Swami, it’s your fault that I went away. You should have used your power to stop me.’ I asked him if he was meditating and making japam. He said, ‘No. You must make me do it.’ I was very touched. Such devotion!”

  September 19. Last Friday, the 16th, I finished the first draft of my screenplay on The Wayfarer. At least I can say this—it’s just exactly the way I wanted to make it. Nobody interfered. Knopf hasn’t read it yet.

  I love this house so much—better than any place I’ve lived in. And this weekend has been a specially happy one. We’ve had lots of guests—Michael Barrie, Chris Wood, Gerald, John Darrow, […] Don Burnett, Jim Charlton, Arthur Laurents, Tom Hatcher. Don has been at his sweetest—all fears, resentments and sulks forgotten—and he is full of resolutions that they shan’t return.

  And now we plan to sail on October 19 for Italy—just one month from now.