March 25. Yesterday, at the Nid de Duc,† I was woken by a rooster and several peacocks; this morning (around six) by a water lock in the next-door bathroom pipes—I suspect David of getting up to scoop the sunrise in his eager beaver way.
I must say, after yesterday, I feel as fond of him as ever or rather more so, and this despite all the frictions of travelling. He actually drives very well but very fast and the constant overtaking of cars on the narrow three-lane roads was a great strain on my nerves. What is the sense of rushing like this, just for the sake of making it to Carcassonne? What a joyless kind of pleasure, tearing past the umbrella pines, the vines, the hilltop towns, the red Cézanne landscape, the narrow streets and the plane trees. Yet David himself remains lovable, so good-humored even when he is scolding Peter, so full of fun and enthusiasm.
And Peter is lovable; I really like him better than before. He doesn’t sulk, he isn’t merely vain, he wants to know things, his squabbles with David also have an underlying good humor, he nags nicely. His nagging is chiefly about David’s untidiness‡ and David’s needless anxiety that we’ll miss the way, and David’s overeating. The question of food affects both David and me. David has been so looking forward to the great French meals, and yesterday we actually ate lunch and supper at two restaurants with one Michelin guide star*—the Jules César at Arles and the Logis de Trencavel on the outskirts of Carcassonne. We had cassoulet at the latter, which David loves; at lunch I had rabbit. Was careful not to eat much of anything but one gets stuffed nevertheless; at supper we all consumed a fat-making but disappointing bombe.
At Arles it rained, but we managed to see the Roman amphitheater. By far the most attractive place was Sète, a harbor town between Arles and Béziers with real busy untidy life in it. Most of the places we passed through seemed strangely shut up and dead.
David keeps running his fingers through Peter’s hair, no matter how many people are around. This embarrasses Peter but he doesn’t get really annoyed. He still loves David very much, I feel.
As for Carcassonne, we shall see more of it this morning.† But its great walls, though awe inspiring and even magnificent from some angles, depress you. How awful to have to be shut up inside this gloomy place, amidst this beautiful landscape, for fear of the neighbors! And nowadays we are shut up too, inside ramparts of rockets.
March 26. Have just spent the night at Douglas Cooper’s improbable home, which is a château and also a museum of Picassos, etc. I really don’t know that I even want to describe it, yet. Like all such places it is basically uncomfortable and intimidating.‡
On the way here yesterday, we had a succession of memorable experiences—lunch at a dear little port in the Camargue called Palavas, the mad-looking freak lopsided new workers’ apartment houses at La Grande Motte, a glimpse of the wild white horses of the Camargue at some place in between (most of them were black or brown) and marvellous Aigues-Mortes. (Aigues means “waters” in Provençal.) Then we took to the Roman ruins of Nîmes, which I find a drag, then we reached Douglas Cooper’s.
(Actually this passage was interrupted by the charming entrance of Peter through the window of my room, soon followed by David; they had been walking around the battlements.)
March 27. So then we went off to Les Baux and ate at the notorious three-star restaurant,* the Baumanière, and then visited Natasha Spender† at their nearby house and then drove back to Nid de Duc, where we found a huge cast of guests, including Edward Albee, his friend Roger Stock, Bob Regester, Tony’s friends Will Chandlee and Giancarlo Cesaro, Anna O’Reilly the ever faithful secretary, Diana Dare, a girl who is said by Bob R. to be stuck on Tony, and Jan the chauffeur, and Jean-Pierre the housekeeper30— oh yes of course and the two little daughters of Tony and Vanessa who I went skating with on March 18.
Much to be written about all this, but for the moment suffice it to say that I decided last night I couldn’t bear to stay in my room, because I could hear every word that was being said in the living room below where they were playing cards, so now I’ve moved to the bottom of one of the other buildings where at least I am quite private.
Today I went into Nice with Bob Regester, in the hope that Don might come in on the plane from New York via Paris (he didn’t) and we met Neil Hartley and Nureyev’s friend Bob Cohan. Now there is a mistral. I realize I am being incoherent and there is so much more to write, but I’ll leave it for now. Am rather drunk because of Blanc de Blanc[s] at lunch with moules.
March 28. The mistral has raged all night. Now it’s a quarter past seven. I feel very snug in the tiny bedroom I’ve moved down to; after that other room I was in, which had three doors (one of which wouldn’t stay shut) and the living room below and David walking in and out, I can appreciate the pleasure of privacy. This is actually quite a big building I am in, but it can be entered at different levels and I might as well be alone.
Le Nid de Duc is a former village of about eight houses, old stone buildings on the slopes of a steep valley, amidst cork oaks, with a stream tumbling in occasional waterfalls. Low wooded hills rise into a gap of light toward the sea. Ninety people used to live here, once.
In this building are (I think) Edward Albee, his friend Roger Stock, Bob Regester and Neil Hartley. Edward is a bit of a square, likeable, professionally aggressive, “regular”—he plays bridge, for example, as though on principle, and he gets politically angry on principle. Last night at supper there was a loud mock quarrel (well, fairly mock) between him and David. David was supporting the Soviet Union and China and calling the USA fascist, Albee was saying he wouldn’t have the U.S. attacked, it was the only place where true socialism was being practised, at least to some extent. They were both absurd and much shouting followed, in which Tony joined. Tony began taking that masochistic attitude toward art, saying that it isn’t important, only feeding and breeding are important. David said the arts would become far greater when everybody in the world is free. Nobody talked about religion. It disgusts Tony and David scorns it. Albee might make more sense. I’ll bring up the subject if I get a chance. After supper “the men” (Tony, Albee, Neil, Jan) played bridge. I proposed to David that he should write a poem* while I drew a picture. I drew two—so bad they weren’t even funny—of Diana Dare talking to Giancarlo Cesaro and of David himself. Then we tried to play guessing games and failed. David got drunk and flashed a flashlight at people saying, “We need some light on this subject.”
Bob, while driving me down to Nice yesterday, said that Diana Dare is out to get Tony. She would like to be a bitch but can’t “get it together.” She thinks of herself as a beauty and expects homage. Giancarlo is a beauty of sorts—he is a very good-natured hustler with Italian good looks and a huge splendid body (guessed at, admittedly, beneath a thick sweater). Will Chandlee is very good-natured also. Bob Cohan a bit pretentious. He is very much the official friend of Nureyev (for the past few months) very protective and possessive. He told how Nureyev is constantly afraid of being kidnapped by the Russians. They tried it when a plane he was on made a forced landing in Egypt. He locked himself in the john. Bob says that Roger Stock is very shy because he feels out of his depth. He is nearly pretty* and yesterday, when he came out of the bathroom in his jockey shorts, I saw that he has very well-made smooth strong legs and sexy buttocks. (The boys, of course, all dress in shimmering cocktail pants, big jeweled belts, blouses, scarves—which they change throughout the day.)
Bob says he had a great showdown with Tony, who begged him to come to Le Nid de Duc and promised to be pleasant. Bob thinks Tony is jealous of him because of his relations with Neil, Vanessa, Jeanne Moreau, Tony’s daughters—and even with me! Tony vents his spleen by calling Bob a kept boy.
Yesterday, as we approached Nice, the Alps were magnificent, finer than I have ever seen them, in thick snow.
Where are you, Don? I had such a strong feeling yesterday, almost a certainty, that you were coming. In a way, your being here would make things more difficult—that’s to say, as soon as you were her
e I’d want to go away with you and leave all these people. And yet I’d like them to see you in all your wonderfulness, your magic and style and beauty.
March 29. A bad hangover. Last night I got stupidly drunk on wine, chiefly because I’m so disappointed Don isn’t here. Now I want to get as quickly as possible to London, where I can at least talk to him on the phone. Drunkenly careless, I let my pillow fall against the electric fire while I was out of the room brushing my teeth. So it was burnt.
David and Peter and I drove into Cap Ferrat yesterday and had lunch at Rory Cameron’s beautiful little house.* Marguerite [Lamkin and her companion] were staying with him. [Her companion] nervously active, walking all around the countryside and playing tennis; Marguerite insisting on having her hair done and going to parties she pretends to hate.
It was sadly nostalgic to pass the faded sign on the gateway to the Villa Mauresque and to look down from the garden of Rory’s former house31 on those very rocks where Don and Willie sat together and were filmed, during a walk.
This morning we went up to the village, La Garde-Freinet.† It was icy cold, with a strong mistral blowing. But then the sun got hot and we all lay in it, and some swam in the heated pool—but not Roger Stock, unfortunately. What with him and Peter and Giancarlo (the splendor of whose body is no longer unguessed at, he stripped for sunbathing) and fattish but muscular Will Chandlee, this is quite a sexy gathering, and there’s nobody here I don’t like, in fact I definitely like most of them. Linda Austin, the children’s nurse, is very sweet. Her face and nice candid eyes are quite adorable. Peter and David and I are thicker than ever.
Today, for the first time, the peacocks opened their tails—at least one of them definitely did. He only likes the white guinea hen and shudders all his feathers at her, constantly inclining his tail to present her with the maximum hypnotic spectacle. But Tony says they can’t mate.
While we were sunbathing, Tony decided he wanted to draw on Peter’s bare back, so colored pencils were brought and he did. This was so typical of his milder sort of sadism. It apparently hurt a bit but Peter rather enjoyed it; it excited him sensually to have this done to him in front of so many people. Tony then began to suggest that maybe it wouldn’t come off. He had drawn a rhinoceros, a flag and a flower.
An Easter breakfast this morning with many chocolate eggs for the little girls. Bob Regester had bought a scarf for each of us, we had to choose which one we wanted. Tony chose the same one as I had, without hesitation; but he never knew this because I hastily picked another.
March 30. The little white cell with black-grey damp stains on the rough plaster, the small terra-cotta tiles, the tiny narrow bed, the warped reflection of the gilt-framed mirror of an old thing in his spectacles with a ropey neck who writes these words compulsively, to fill this book, to do his daily task, because that is his nature.
This morning is glorious. No mistral. The sunshine coming up hotly. The peacocks crying, the Chinese fighting cocks crowing.
I now feel real goodwill from Albee and some guarded friendliness from Roger Stock. They leave for England at midday. Albee has never kept a diary, says he can never make his characters use bits of prerecorded dialogue. Roger described a game they all played last night—someone was blindfolded and the others touched him and made noises and he had to guess who it was. This, it seems, was terribly difficult.
I had gone to bed because I had a stomach ache and felt sick. Today I’m pretty much all right—this seems to have been a warning against drinking and general gluttony.
Giancarlo Cesaro gave a truly marvellous performance, yesterday evening after supper, in bits of Carmen and Italian popular songs. He is a classic androgyne, with his Michaelangelo body and feminine soul. It wasn’t merely inspired camping, though much of it was very funny it was also startlingly beautiful.
Later. This afternoon we (David, Peter and Bob Cohan) drove down to St. Tropez and wandered amongst the crowds. The old port has been restored after World War II damage and it looks just like I remember it when I came here with Olive [Mangeot] and the boys in the twenties. So does the square where we stayed. But of course it is now crammed and very expensive.
Bob Cohan wanted to talk about Krishnamurti, in whose teachings he has been interested for years. I like him much better now.
The builder came to give David an estimate for fixing up one of the buildings for him as a studio. It amounted to about six thousand pounds, exclusive of the bath fixtures and the installation of floor heating. I can’t help feeling that this project is another of Tony’s snares. He would like to have David around as a tame painter, but is it worth all that money to David? Won’t it end up badly, like my garden house at the Hookers’? And, talking about money, I find it just a trifle unsplendid that we have to pay for our air tickets both ways—sixty pounds in my case.
March 31. Last night Tony said that he hadn’t made any money on a film for seven years and that he lost all the remaining money that would have come to him from Tom Jones (a million) because he had to put it into Laughter in the Dark when the backing was withdrawn after he’d gotten rid of Richard Burton.32
He says he doesn’t like Albee personally; “I don’t like anything about him.”
He very firmly made it clear to David that it wouldn’t be convenient for him to hear the work on David’s studio going on in the early summer, because he, Tony, will be here and it would disturb him. David took this quite calmly, but then he said that he will have to consult his brother about the money, and I began to hope he will wriggle out of the deal, in his canny Yorkshire way. What would happen if Tony sold the property at any time?
Well, today we’re off, and I’m glad to be getting back to London, although this trip—particularly the tour with David and Peter— has been memorable and pleasant. Tony is in a strange withdrawn mood, jealous perhaps, resentful perhaps—but of whom or what? He has never mentioned Claudius or excused his arbitrary and irrational behavior to us about it. Yet I’m still more than willing to be friends with him, any time he wants.
I quit drinking two days ago.
April 1. Feeling a bit depressed. The weather is so loathsome, wretched snow and cold and rain. And although David’s show* was really impressive when I saw it this morning, the total effect of meeting the people at it was depressing—my contemporaries looked so beat-up and the few beautiful young were unattainable and I felt excluded from both worlds. [Don’s friend] was there. I made rather a thing of shaking hands with him, which I now regret. Why not have just turned my back on him, the silly faggot? (When I got to the flat, yesterday, I found a note from him saying he is “very unhappy and distressed about everything; whatever my failings have been I’ve always wanted the friendship between you and Don and me to be there.” Ha ha. She ends, “I’m simply writing now hoping your feelings will change and that we can make it up.”)*
My only world is Don and he isn’t here and here is no place for me to be. But I must sit it out until something is settled about the play. We talked on the phone this morning. Jim Gates is now working for the Goodwill as an accepted form of alternative service for conscientious objectors. He has to rise at dawn, go clear downtown, work till 5:30, for which he gets only $1.50 an hour.
It poured yesterday morning on our way to the airport but cleared for the flight. We only had a short stopover in Paris and got to London about 6:00 p.m. Anna O’Reilly† and Bob Cohan came back with David and Peter and me. Anna is a very curious girl. [. . .]
April 2. Last night I went with Peter to Tiny Alice. Neil was there too and Bob Cohan and Albee and Roger Stock. I liked the play far more in every way than when I saw it in New York. David Warner33 is perfect, perfect casting and an excellent performance. I’ve never liked him before. Irene Worth is as good as ever, though now she looks rather too old. (I went backstage with Neil and was surprised to find that she knew me quite intimately and remembered Don; with actresses you never know.)34 Also I thought the set was marvellous, especially when it was representing the li
brary, with long dreamlike vistas of reflected bookcases.
Albee’s dialogue impressed me. It is tricky and seems to belong to the school of Christopher Fry, the word mincer. But it has great style and atmosphere. I now feel I almost know what the play is about but I doubt if Albee does. We all had a pleasant dinner together afterwards. Roger was drunk and friendlier and now I feel I really like Albee and also Bob Cohan. And I always like Neil. But, oh dear, why do we have to go around in these tribes? I would so much rather be alone with any single one of them and communicate.
Dreams about Don last night. I was talking to him and he said, “I’m a terribly jealous person.” I felt very happy because he had admitted this and so I could talk of my jealousy without its being one sided. Then I was surrounded by eels which kept changing into kittens. The eels repelled me until they changed, but when they did I loved them as kittens, although they still had a white transparent look, sort of eely, and indeed kept changing back again into eels. I commented on this to Don. Was it a dream about the doubleness of love-hate?
A charming note from Dirk Bogarde this morning, saying that he can’t/won’t do our play, which he claims to have “enjoyed enormously” (“I rather feel that I have done my bit for this particular theme—if you know what I mean”35) and going on to say how he wishes he had played Chris in Camera—“He is my Hamlet.”
April 3. Still this hellish cold. Tomorrow I have to go down to Essex and see Dodie and Alec [Beesley], where it’ll be snowing for sure. I have just finished her novel. It is exactly what I feared; one of those patty-paws romances, a little kiss here, a little wistful regret there, one affair is broken off, another starts up. Magazine writing. What’s wrong with it, actually? It’s so pleased with itself, so fucking smug, so snugly cunty, the art of women who are delighted with themselves, who indulge themselves and who patronize their men. They know that there is nothing, there can be nothing outside of the furry rim of their cunts and their kitchens, their children and their clubs. The book is rotten with Christian Science and I am indulging in the luxury of being brutal about it because I know I will have to be polite about it to Dodie tomorrow—I also know that I shall want to be polite, because I do respect her and she is indeed so much wiser and subtler and better than this silly book.*
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