Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  One always feels drawn to Evelyn, because she is indeed doing so much good in the world. And how lonely she must be! One sees her all alone in that garden house, surrounded by her tapes of statements—by the gay bar owner, the wealthy male prostitute, etc. etc.

  Am getting along steadily with the Vivekananda introduction. Then I can take at least a solid month and a half for “Paul.” Except, of course, that there’s the Plato project. Charles is just about to arrive now, for our first serious conference.

  The drunk (?) woman friend of Jerry Lawrence who called up in the middle of last night and wanted me to take in a sick cat, immediately, as she was leaving for Tijuana in the morning. I was so mad, I hung up on her, which was rude and wrong.

  Later: 6:00 p.m. Charles has been here and we’ve read through chapter eight of the Republic. Some of it is really startlingly contemporary. Charles is now very hopeful about the whole project. “Let’s shake hands, Christopher,” he said: “We can do this thing.” His idea, which is really very sensible, is that we shall keep picking out bits we like and then see how they all fit together. But, roughly, the plan is: act one—political ideas, why Socrates was the only serious political philosopher of his time, why his ideas were so obnoxious and therefore why he was so apt to get himself condemned to death. Act two—love, and what Socrates thought it ought to mean. Act three—trial, imprisonment, death.

  We’re to meet again on Friday, having read the Republic, books four and seven, the Symposium, the Phaedrus.

  In some ways, Charles reminds me so much of van Druten: his eagerness to be the bright boy in class who puts his hand up, and his underlying inferiority. He tells me he feared that I should make him feel inferior—i.e., be smarter than him. And now, he implies, he knows I’m not.

  Dieting hasn’t exactly made him look slimmer but his face has much more expression.

  It seems that Hal Greene has suddenly demanded $49,000 for the house and adjoining lot, not including the four-fifths of a lot next to our land. In fact, if this is true, he has quite brutally upped the price by $9,000, and made a liar out of me to Charles. However, this isn’t quite certain yet.

  I have the impression that Charles may well buy it anyway.

  Lay on my upside-down board and did the pelvis exercise as Dr. Lewis prescribed. Is it my imagination, or is my back just a shade better? Certainly this squatting instead of bending down must be good for me; and the sitting upright.

  June 28. Well, today I finished the Vivekananda introduction—thank Vivekananda! It is such a bore, but serviceable, I guess.

  My optimism about my back was premature. On Sunday evening, we went to see Tony Richardson and Mary Ure again and got rather drunk, and in the morning, yesterday, I felt bad. Then, yesterday evening, we went with the Stravinskys to the Kabuki, and that was too much for it, too. Today has been better, because I kept quiet and lay in the sun and on my board.

  Tony Richardson says he identifies with the boy in Alan Sillitoe’s “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner,” because he’s tall and skinny and because fundamentally he rebels against everyone.

  Olivier fell—also on two steps—while working in Tony’s film of The Entertainer, and slipped a disk in his back; he’s better now.

  The Kabuki last night was a terrible disappointment—so inferior to the time we saw them in Tokyo. I suppose what one missed was the outrageous and somewhat Elizabethan melodrama: the ghost of the murdered hero, the man struck by lightning, the fight with the witch. These two plays—we left before the third—were so tame; the loyal servant who—unthinkably according to the classic Japanese code—strikes his disguised young master, so as to deceive the guards on the road who have been posted to prevent his escape. And the blind man who thinks his wife’s unfaithful so he throws himself into a ravine, and she throws herself faithfully after him, and then they’re both restored to life and his eyesight is restored by the goddess of mercy. (True, there was an interesting idea in the first one: namely that the chief of the road guards isn’t really deceived, but that he’s so impressed by the devotion of the servant in striking his master—and thus suffering agonies of guilt and shame—that he lets them through anyway, and even provides the saki for a drinking party at which the young master pardons and thanks the loyal servant—who then dances. But this idea, which is fun now I write it out, is not theatrically effective. It’s too esoteric.)

  Poor Igor was suffering from diarrhea. (He had to go to the men’s room during the first play and asked me to come with him, but then he whispered, “Don’t hold my arm!” And at the entrance I ran into Bill Robinson, who was managing a cushion concession and told me that he [is] still very happy […].) Bob and Vera are increasingly worried about Igor’s health, and it seems as if the trip to South America might still be cancelled. I have a sad presentiment that I may not see him again if he goes.

  (And this makes me remember hurrying back into M.’s bedroom at Wyberslegh last summer to give her what I guessed might be a goodbye kiss—an extra one after we’d already said goodbye. Richard wrote such a moving letter—I got it yesterday—describing how: “The morning of the day she died, she kept on saying, ‘Oh for peace, for peace,’ which wrung one’s heart. I was alone with her when she passed away, holding her hand, but she had fallen asleep and did not wake up again. Just before this, I told her how much you and I loved her, and she pressed my hand with hers and I knew she understood, although she had got beyond articulating.” And later he tells how M.’s ashes were buried in the right-hand mound in front of the house, “Close to the remains of her two dear pussies.” That makes me cry as I write it, but I know that’s because pussies are part of the great sensitive area in my feelings surrounding Don.)

  Hal Greene called this morning to tell me that the man Laughton’s lawyer had had come out from the loan company had made an offer for the house for himself. “For how much?” I asked. “Why, my price,” Hal said, “$47,500 for the house, the next lot, and the piece next to you.” So I called Charles, who came rushing out here and now has practically bought the place. The mystery deepens. Who was lying? Why this business about $49,000? It is too mysterious—and not quite interesting enough—to worry about.

  July 1. This fucking back doesn’t get any better. I’m weary of it, and ill-tempered because of a hangover; I went up to Ivan’s last night and drank too much. George Stevens Jr186 was there with Hope Lange—maybe romancing her in his little boy way. He described how shocked he and his father had been, getting material for The Greatest Story [Ever Told] in Israel. As the makers of Anne Frank they had taken it almost as a personal affront when they found that Jews in Israel are unpleasant, nationalistic, imperialistic, chauvinistic and contemptuous of the Jewish faith. Oliver and Betty Andrews were there too, and Donna [O’Neill], of course. Oliver very stuffy and opinionated, but I quite like him. He said that portraiture was “impossible at this time.” Luckily Don didn’t hear this; he arrived later to pick me up to go to the airport to meet Jo and Ben. But their plane back from Mexico was hours late, so we left again. Talking to Jo this morning, I hear that they didn’t get home till 4:00 a.m.

  Yesterday noon, I talked to the Pacific Coast Writers’ Conference at State College on “How I Wrote My Berlin Stories.” I think I was quite a bore. The room was hot, and the pills I’d taken for my back made me drowsy. Leon Surmelian187 drove me out and back. I’d been dreading this but ended by liking him rather—but oh, he’s so deadly serious. It was amazing to hear him holding forth about the national destiny of Armenia; how one cannot be an Armenian without being a “Christian warrior.” He thinks, however, that the USA ought to be kept predominantly Anglo-Saxon. […] He gave me a copy of his book I Ask You, Ladies and Gentlemen.188 He has decided that he “respects” me and that I’m a “good man.” The friendship of a person like Surmelian makes one groan, and I have visions of evenings of serious talk with shish kebab—and yet he is obviously decent, quite intelligent, and even, to a large extent, on my side. He thinks capitalistic societ
y is necessarily rotten, and he says that, among Armenians who come to America, it is always the third-rate who succeed. Armenians are either businessmen or “dreamers.”

  Betty Andrews had borrowed from Eugenie Leontovich189 a book of photos of the pre-1914 productions of the Moscow Art Theater, with pictures of the first productions of Chekhov’s plays. The unbelievable hamminess of the character actors, and the fatness and homeliness of the leading ladies. It isn’t until the very last pictures—1916—that you see what one would now call a pretty girl. Noticed how strangely deep the sets were. A dinner-table alcove (in The Seagull?) was set so far back that you couldn’t—you’d think—have seen the actors properly. Wonderful “outdoor” backdrops—“realistically” painted and yet so hopelessly unrealistic that they have an impressionist charm which would delight audiences today.

  July 2. Last night we had supper with Lydia Minevitch190 and her boyfriend, a young lawyer named Bert Fields. I drove the car for the first time since I hurt my back, and it seems all right today—I mean, it seems no worse. Dinner was a bore, and I boringly held forth on the history of the Nazi movement, which seemed to interest the boyfriend but was simply stirring the muddy waters of boredom into more mud. Drank again, but fortunately not too much.

  Today has been very hot. Slowly, with all my usual pathological delays, I’ve restarted “Paul,” and now I must plough ahead. I think it’s apt to be very long.

  Presently I’m going out to supper with Mary Ure and Tony Richardson. Don has been there all afternoon, drawing Tony and then taking him to his first lesson at Harvey Easton’s gym.

  July 3. Don did some really excellent drawings of Tony Richardson yesterday. He is in a wonderfully creative period; he succeeds nearly every day in producing at least some first rate work. I joined them and we all drove down to supper in Chinatown. Tony drove, very cautiously; he is learning. He was in a rather wild mood, otherwise, and eager to get drunk. He has the wild eye of a horse in a Delacroix battle painting. He and Wyatt Cooper leave next week to visit the South—Mississippi—and look for locations, for Requiem.191 Wyatt seemed nicer, because he admitted to his fear of water, even in swimming pools. Told stories of times he’d been seduced. “Let’s cut out all this talk. I’m interested in what’s between your legs.” The mystery of the attraction exercised by fat men on certain people. At the Chinese restaurant, we played the game of “Who would you choose to sleep with?” choosing mostly the most undesirable people thinkable. Mary Ure entered enthusiastically into the game and gave her answers with decision; though she seems exclusively heterosexual, she seemed to know exactly how she’d react to various women. Don thinks she is very sexual.

  Touched by a telegram of sympathy on M.’s death from Tennessee and Frank [Merlo].

  July 4. Quite early—8:20—and a grey misty morning—the ocean absolutely indistinguishable from the sky, except for a few wrinkles and a border of white foam. What a bore to think of all the people and cars who’ll come swarming down here later!

  Don seems quite sick, with pains in his stomach. He complained of them yesterday morning too, but today seems much worse. He’s had two hot water bottles, and some tea, and keeps trying to shit. So far he refuses to let me send for the doctor.

  (When I went to fix the tea this morning, I found that there was nothing left but the flower-decorated pot of “celebration tea” which was given us by John Durst and Jonathan Preston on Christmas Day 1958, when we had them in for Christmas dinner. Thoughts about Jonathan—wondering where he is, now. There was really something very sweet about him.)

  Yesterday was a bad day. Charles Laughton came and we read the Phaedrus, and I was bored—not by it, but by the contact with Charles, with whom I can’t possibly converse because he’s stupid, vain and pretentious. Not that I mind people being just stupid, one bit, but the combination is impenetrable. He does so remind me of van Druten, and, as in Johnnie’s case, I’m sorry for and quite fond of him. Charles is much stupider than Johnnie, though.

  Well then, I saw a man and a woman come up to the gate and try to get through; and then the man climbed over. So I came out, trembling with rage, and said, “Will you please go away? Why do you think that gate is locked?” So the man said, “I used to come through here twenty-five years ago,” and I said, “I don’t care!” and went back into the house and they went away. After this, I was upset all evening. I am quite sick on this point. It is unreasonable, among other things, because I have never even bothered to put up notices saying the walk is private. I must do this.

  Don came home and found me upset, so he got upset and put on a faggoty display of temperament, refusing to eat in three restaurants and finally landing us in a Coffee Dan’s. And then he wanted to see Lana Turner in her new film—so I said all right, for peace, and there was a line; so we went home, but then Don said let’s go later and there was a longer line, and he was furious. And then, just as we’d nearly made it all up, he said that Mrs. Paxton192 knew of a cheap house painter in Burbank but he’d have to come and sleep here while he was working. So I said I couldn’t stand having anyone around; and he said, “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

  I record all this because it is too often not recorded. And one ought, when things are going well, to marvel at the madness of human beings who claim they love each other and yet can behave like this—with death and H-bombs and every sort of real disaster just around the corner. How dare we act like whining ten-year-old spoilt darlings? Well, we dare. We shall go on doing it until we drop.

  We’re supposed to go with Tony Richardson and Mary Ure to the Selznicks’ for lunch. Doubt if we shall, though.

  July 5. I did—Don started to get dressed, felt bad and went back to bed.

  The party at the Selznicks’ was quite fun, just because Tony and Mary were so scared by it, and we laughed a lot in corners. Tony insisted on having a cardboard Uncle Sam top hat. Norma Shearer, looking like the mummy’s bride, introduced herself and told me how honored she was because I’d used her pool doll’s house for a model in The World in the Evening. Martin Manulis’s193 car went out of control down the hill and he knocked out four front teeth; David Selznick announced this to our table, saying, “Don’t tell anyone,” which was funny because, drunk and greedy, we couldn’t have cared less—it was a bit like the end of The Seagull. Jennifer had invited the leading members of the Kabuki company, so there was much bowing and hissing. I did my best to remove the unpleasant impression made by Mike Connolly’s remark in his column in The Hollywood Reporter that Stravinsky and Isherwood left after the first act of the Kabuki and Hitchcock after the second—by telling them all how sick Igor was.

  I got on with “Paul,” and started chapter ten of the Ramakrishna book in the morning.

  Don was so sweet yesterday evening. He still felt shaky and we just walked as far as the park to watch the fireworks. Tremendous banging all round the Canyon for nearly two hours. It echoed so loud off our retaining wall that I felt quite uneasy lest a window should break.

  It was sad to see poor old Joe Cotten plastered at the Selznicks’, and remember it was only last July 4th that we were up there with Lenore.194

  Today, Charles and I read the Apology and Crito. Don asked Charles when he could draw him and Charles got quite grand and put him off, and talked about Don’s “pursuit” of him and said he was too busy “with Elsa’s thing” (it’s just some TV show or other) and when Don asked what that was, said, “None of your damn business,” and added—as he thought good-naturedly—“and now get out.” Don took this perfectly; he left, smiling pleasantly. But I’m not sure if I ought not to terminate all relations with Charles—he really is insufferable—an arrogant old fool. There is going to be big trouble ahead if he behaves like this. Especially if he fondly imagines that Don is going to take a hand in keeping Terry entertained when he comes here. Oh dear, how tiresome all this is! I fear a tremendous, slowly growing feud; especially after Elsa’s impossible behavior to Don. He is still out, and I’m wondering what kind of
a mood he’ll return in. He must be just boiling with fury. And Charles left, utterly unconscious that there was anything wrong!

  July 6. Well, Don was very self-controlled about the whole thing, but nevertheless, great damage has been done and I feel really bored by the prospect of having to go on associating with this old fool.

  Last night we had Mary Ure, Wyatt Cooper and Tony Richardson to dinner. Tony wouldn’t say until the last moment if he was coming or not, and at last he arrived late and drunk in despair. He had failed his driving test (he didn’t tell us this—Mary did, though he’d told her, for some inscrutable reason, that he didn’t want me to know) and Richard Zanuck, his producer, had just announced that they couldn’t afford to shoot any of the picture on location, and his writer Jim Poe had been behaving like an ass.

  (Cooking note: I must have had the salmon steaks on the barbecue for at least half an hour, owing to Tony’s suddenly announced and then delayed arrival. I put them out of range of the direct fire, on the circumference of the grill, and kept drenching them in soy oil—and, wonder of wonders, they were moist, edible, in fact cooked just right!)

  After dinner, we were scheduled to go to hear Bertice Reading, the colored actress who was so bad in Requiem for a Nun in London. So Tony insisted on driving their car. The others went with Don in the borrowed Ford. Tony drove very uncertainly and kept apologizing. When we got to their house, Wyatt insisted on everybody coming along in the Ford. Evidently, he told Tony he [Tony] couldn’t drive. Tony was quite furious with Wyatt for this, and sulked, even after we got to the Crescendo. Mary tried to soothe him. (One sees her rather typically in this role.) Bertice Reading, absolutely spherical in a twenties-ish dress pulled in like a powder puff around the legs, stomped and shrieked and rolled her eyes. She was at least much more amusing than as a tragic actress. Mort Sahl was funny but nevertheless unpleasant, as usual. Mostly jokes about the convention.195 But he got in a good dig at the Council of Churches for upholding capital punishment. “They say, ‘After all, we know a few people get executed unjustly and the communists make a big thing out of it. But it doesn’t happen often, and the exception proves the rule and all that jazz …’ It sounds a bit strange, doesn’t it, the Council of Churches not being worried about one unjust execution!”