As for Disley, it seemed dripping with nostalgia, as usual. Those sad sodden hills under the low tragic sky. Lyme Cage685 standing up black against the light, that enigmatic little structure, like some archetypal symbol one sees in a dream. The little pub called The Ploughboy, which I used in A Single Man. The telephone box on the corner with the ban-the-bomb sign daubed on it. The people in their raincoats, very sharp and distinct in the humid light. Actually, however, it hardly rained at all while I was there.
When I went down to Cambridge on October 16 to see Forster, I was overpowered by a sense of death. What seemed so terrible was that the buildings of King’s hadn’t changed at all. They were like merciless instruments which had whittled away at us human beings and worn us out. We had rubbed off our youth on them. Morgan was so gentle and faint and humble; thanking me for coming to see him until I wanted to weep. And looking down from his window through the yellow afternoon murk, I saw an under graduate throwing up a bowler hat and another undergraduate trying to hit it with cracks of a long bullwhip—and it seemed that they, too, had only an instant in which to be young. And then we went into hall, passing down the lines of all those young men standing impatiently until we old fuddlers should be seated—and of course I was identifying myself with them, forgetting my own wrinkles, as I walked in the freak-show procession of dons, led by the poor arthritic provost who is bent down like a dromedary and had to have a younger American don support him so his chin shouldn’t sink and rub against the floor. And no sooner had we sat down than a man opposite, whom I’d written off as an utter dotard, reminded me that we had both tried for an entrance scholarship to Charterhouse, the same year!
I see death too at Wyberslegh, which is slowly dying of neglect, and will almost certainly die, because repairing it would cost a fortune, and Richard doesn’t even really want to repair it. He has become apathetic about the whole thing. He says he won’t live in Wyberslegh again unless he can get someone to live there with him, which is surely next to impossible. The house is ghastly with damp and mould and black deathly dirt.
But on my last day at Disley, October 25, I insisted on taking a taxi and driving over to Marple Hall. You can hardly find either of the entrances to the park. What used to be called The Private Drive is now a road called Marina Drive, with a girls’ and boys’ school on it, big airy pleasing buildings, the Marple Hall Grammar School. All the times I had come here before, the place had seemed horrible, with the old disfigured house falling into ruin. But now the whole feeling was different. You could barely trace the foundations of the house, they were thickly grassed over. Only the stone over one of the doorways to the terrace lies there in the grass, engraved with the date 1658. And the two great beech trees are still standing—the one near the front gate and the one at the end of the terrace, in which I shot the wood pigeon with my air rifle (my most painfully remembered youthful “war crime”). It was a beautiful morning, and in the classrooms they were sitting at lessons, and over on what used to be the Barn Meadow a football game was going on. A new life had taken over. The Hall and its curse were forgotten, or remembered only as something romantic and mildly benevolent. And I felt as the narrator feels at the end of Wuthering Heights, when he sees that the graves are becoming overgrown by the vegetation of the moor and thinks that you could not imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
November 17. (Back here on Adelaide Drive since November 2 and thank goodness no longer forced to use the Olivetti—though indeed it is a faithful little thing, infuriating and stubborn but strong as a donkey. I used to get so mad at it that I nearly tossed it out the window a couple of times; and I’d bang it so hard that it’s a wonder I didn’t wreck the keyboard.)
First, while I remember, a note on what’s written above about my visit to the site of Marple Hall. I omitted to record what now seems almost the most significant detail—that my taxi driver was in a hurry and, in his ungracious north-country way, told me that he could only allow me fifteen minutes to walk around and recapture the past. Imagine Proust being goosed and speeded up like that!
I don’t know if I shall ever have the memory or the energy to get my impressions of London written down, now. Will just relax and try to write every day for a week or so, and maybe something will come through. Up to now, I’ve been kept busy, or at any rate jittery, by having to rewrite the teleplay of “Silent Night.” Now that’s done and we await ABC’s decision to go ahead or not to.
Projects ahead: Lamont Johnson asked me if I would be interested in adapting Shaw’s The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God, to be produced at the theater next to the Music Center, downtown.686 I’ve read this through once and can’t make much sense out of it, but shall try it again. Then there’s Tony Page’s project of doing a condensed version of the two Lulu plays by Wedekind, for the English theater. Then there is the adaptation of Turgenev’s The Torrents of Spring for the BBC, to be played by James Fox. Then there’s the possibility that they may want me to work on The Shoes of the Fisherman, after all. They will if MGM is prepared to go on with the project, after all these false starts.
Then of course there is Hero-Father, Demon-Mother. Truman, whom we’ve seen twice in the past four days, doesn’t like the title. Neither does Don. Truman thinks it too complicated and tricky.
Truman is curiously delightful to be with. We both felt this. Cecil Beaton had told me in London that success had spoiled him, but it wasn’t apparent. He seemed the same as ever, except that this is one of his fat periods; he is quite gross, though in a compact powerful way, not at all flabby. He is giving a huge ball, “Black and White,” shortly after Thanksgiving. I know Don would like to go to this. I absolutely loathe the thought of going to New York at all, but who knows what may not happen at the last moment! There would be the incentive of going to see Cabaret, which opens officially on the 20th—it’s already on Broadway and in previews.
While we were driving to have supper with Truman Capote at the Bel Air Hotel we passed the Bracketts’ house and wondered what the poor old things are up to, nowadays. Quite spontaneously a phrase came into my mouth, to describe their probable life: “The shuffle of slippers and cards.”
November 23. Despite my resolutions, I’ve failed to make daily entries here and I begin to feel, more and more, that my memories of England are slipping away from me. Can’t be helped.
I was just about to record, when I was interrupted while writing last, that Gerald had another stroke a short while ago, just before my return here. He lost the power of speech. Now he seems to be getting better. I talked to Jack Jones, who is my connection, this morning, and he told me that Gerald wrote several pages yesterday, in answer to some spiritual query from a woman he knows, but that he doesn’t do much talking, on doctor’s orders, although he is now able to.
Through Jack, I sent a message to Gerald asking if he would accept the dedication of A Meeting by the River. This seems to have pleased him and he did accept. The day before yesterday I finished correcting the American proofs and sent them back to Simon and Schuster. I still don’t know what I think of the book. It seems thin and unconvincing at the beginning; later I think the fun of the psychological interplay starts to be felt. I am pleased with the final moves leading to the climax. But it’s clever rather than emotionally powerful (whatever that means!)[.]
Talking about interplay, Don and I are engaged in one of our strange psychological wrestling matches. He wants to go to New York, attend Truman’s ball and see Cabaret. I don’t. That’s to say, I don’t want to go through all the trouble and discomfort involved. Also, I’m convinced, or I tell myself that I’m convinced, that Don would have a much better time there alone. Don, on his side, probably agrees with me and yet he feels that going to Truman’s ball will be embarrassing unless I’m with him, so he wants me to come. Indeed this is very often his attitude, I think: he needs me, he would like my companionship, and yet he doesn’t want me underfoot, because I can be a damned nuisance, with my slowness, my h
atred of cold weather, my lack of enthusiasm for parties, etc. My tempo exasperates him, his exasperates me. We are always getting on each other’s nerves and we love each other very much and so we wrestle emotionally. If I don’t come, I’ll have “deserted” him. If he puts off going because I won’t go, I’ll have deprived him of his fun. Similarly, if I stay behind I shall feel guilty, if I go I shall feel resentful because he dragged me over there against my will. Therefore we put off and put off the decision—it may well not be made until Saturday morning, when we have reservations on a midday flight. What I want, and am wrestling for, is an unconditional emotional “pardon,” which will make me feel that I can stay here with a clear conscience. And what does Don want? If I knew that, there wouldn’t be any problems.
Jerry Lawrence thinks Cabaret is a hit, but this seems to be largely hearsay. He hasn’t got copies of the notices yet. The New York Times was very favorable, except for Jill Haworth, who was described as a hole in the production.687 Variety and the Los Angeles Times unenthusiastic.
Gide’s So Be It is one of the best things I have ever read about old age. I read it since I got home. Also Dougal Haston’s book about climbing the Eiger,688 which gave me vertigo even while lying down on the couch in the workroom—I felt I was on a ledge on the North Face. (I got the same sensation from reading Whymper’s account of climbing the Matterhorn,689 but this was much stronger.)
Now I’m wondering if I can use Gide’s method of writing So Be It to do Hero-Father. I mean, I wonder if I can keep a sort of diary of my attempt to write the book—a diary which might turn out to be the book itself. After all, my theme is my archetypes, so it’s to be presumed that these archetypes are present at all times within my consciousness—so their presence could be related to the happenings of today. I don’t know exactly what I mean by this, but surely, if I watch out carefully, happenings will occur which will relate in one way or another to the archetypes? Well, for instance, the Eiger book raises the question, why does Dougal Haston appeal to me as a hero figure?
Perhaps I should loose-leaf all my material, without trying at first to connect it in any way. Just write it on separate pieces of paper and put them in a file. When I think about this problem I keep returning to the idea that the book ought to be written disconnectedly, or seemingly so. My first beginning of a draft of it seems too slick, largely because the narration is too orderly. I stopped because I was boring myself.
November 30. In bed this morning I had a very important thought about the book. It’s this: this book is not about my father and my mother, it’s about me. I mean, it is like an archaeological excavation. I dig into myself and I find my father and my mother in me. I find all the figures of the past inside me, not outside. I understand the importance of this approach when I think what it is that bores me about the conventional approach to autobiography. It’s that the author says (in effect), “Before I tell you about me I shall tell you about them,” and so the parents are forever separated from the child who is doing the telling—when, actually, the opposite is true, the parents are now only alive within the child and as a part of him. If I don’t forget that I shall be able to write this book in a way which has some chance of pleasing me.
Don has been in New York since the 26th. He went to the ball, which he found tacky but very enjoyable, and he saw Cabaret, which he found merely awful. It is quite a hit, although the notices haven’t all been good. It sounds Jewish beyond all belief and I now have scarcely any desire to see it.
Thick fog tonight. Am lazy, not wanting to work at anything. Not wanting to read, even—and certainly not to read the novels in manuscript I’ve been given; they bore me in advance. My belly is swollen up with gas and pressing hard and painfully against its ceiling, Paul Wonner and Bill Brown are coming to take me out to dinner and the movies, but I scarcely want that, even. Tonight I am very very old. I keep trying to fart, to relieve the gas pain. I wish, I wish . . . what do I wish? That the man would come and fix the water heater.
December 17. Yesterday and the day before I worked on some polishings of the “Silent Night” teleplay. It was really an utter bore and yet I felt grateful for the compulsion to do something, anything. Now I’m at a loose end again. I ought to welcome this and relax, or else get on with reading the two manuscripts I am supposed to read.
Don got back from New York on the 13th and this much at least is clear, he had a much better time than he would have if I’d been along. So that’s good. But his art and life problems remain. What I can see is that of course it would be a disaster if there weren’t any such problems for him. Theoretically, I can see that about myself too, but only theoretically. Theoretically I’m sure Don sees that about himself.
Cabaret really does seem to be a hit, so I hope for steady drippings of money through the spring of 1967 at least.
December 18. Don said to me last night, at a dull party of dreary people, “Let’s go—the night is younger than they are.”
A proverb I thought of at breakfast: Miscarriages are made in heaven.
At the showing of student films,690 the day before yesterday, was one of those men who are chronically and (as they say) unintentionally rude. His opening to me was, “When did you write The Novel?” He meant of course Goodbye to Berlin, which is “The Novel” simply because a second-rate play and a fifth-rate musical have been based on it. I was irritated but told him it was published in 1939. “That’s a long long time,” but said archly, implying that I’d better get busy and write something else. At this, even more irritated, I told him that I had published a book this year, last year, and the year before that, and that I am publishing another book next year. “You’re a machine!” he exclaimed, mockingly. And, as I was leaving, he shouted after me, “Keep it up!” (I’m well aware how childish it is of me to let this sort of thing annoy me, even mildly.)
Swami was describing to me how he spends his days, now that he is on a convalescent routine. Instead of saying, “That’s when I meditate,” he said, “That’s when I do my thinking.” Apparently he called it thinking instead of meditating because he does it lying down. Such thinking one should be able to do!
Yesterday Don painted a really beautiful portrait of Collin Wilcox; one of his best. I keep hoping that he will go into another satisfactory work period. He denied that he really liked this picture, but no doubt that was partly out of superstition; he doesn’t want to let the demons of the air hear him.
Jack [Larson] and Jim [Bridges] came to supper last Thursday. As usual Jim was silent and sleepy and seemingly bored in Jack’s presence. This used to irritate me, but I have seen a good deal of Jim lately, while Jack and Don were both in New York, and now I think I understand his relation to Jack much better.
Jack, says Jim, is terribly worried about old age. He doesn’t use a lot of cosmetics but he spends a great deal of time staring at his face in the mirror. Joan Houseman upset him by remarking (the bitch!) that it was good that he finally looked his age, because now one would take what he said seriously and not treat him like a child.
[. . .]
While Jack was away, Jim told me that he felt wonderfully free, because when Jack is there he feels like a guest, he never feels that the house belongs to him. They are very formal about keeping separate accounts and each paying his share. After a quarrel it has always been Jim who has had to make the first advance and say he’s sorry—but the other day, to Jim’s amazement and delight, Jack said he was sorry.
Jack’s too strict with Jim about clothes and disapproves if he dresses eccentrically. “I’m wild,” said Jim, “sometimes I’d like to dress in velvet and put postage stamps all over my face.”
Jim is terribly scared and worried by Jack’s mental attacks. [. . .] But during these manic attacks, Jack also gets brilliant ideas—for example, it was during an attack that he saw how to rewrite the second part of the Byron opera.
Jim told me that at present he is “off ” Gavin, Nellie Carroll and Clyde Ventura. He feels that Nellie is making use of him, p
articularly with regard to Miguel.691 The other day, Nellie told Jim that Miguel had spent forty dollars on taxis. When Jim was astounded, Nellie said that Miguel’s car had broken down and that of course he couldn’t be expected to take a bus when he went to see his wife! Miguel has been building a workroom for Jim out in the garden. Jim had unwisely agreed to pay him by the day, and Nellie cut down Miguel’s working hours by insisting that she and Miguel should make love in the mornings before he started out. As for Gavin, Jim feels that Clint [Kimbrough] has changed him—he is now so negative about everything. (Jim’s specific charge was that Gavin had hated Beckett’s Happy Days—which Nina Foch and Ted Marcuse performed at Pasadena the other day, very well—so violently that he refused even to discuss it.) Jim thinks that Gavin is terrifically impressed by show biz personalities, such as Natalie Wood. (This I don’t believe.) Jim says that Gavin is such a careless writer, he never polishes anything or takes any real trouble. (This too I doubt.) As for Clyde, Jim complains that he’s such a liar. I’m sure he is, but he’s also truly charming, and if you ask him to the house he really sings (and dances) for his supper.
December 19. Another beautiful though slightly chilly day. Yesterday we went on the beach and something happened to my hip, I must have pinched a nerve or something. It is very painful if I make a wrong move. Christmas looms. Joe LeSueur is arriving tomorrow, Tony Richardson on Thursday—to spend a divorcee Christmas with Vanessa. Sometime in the next few days, Clint is to have his screen test for In Cold Blood—astoundingly enough, he has made his way right up to the finals—and it is largely my doing! I dread his gratitude, if he wins—or rather, the gratitude which he will feel he must feel. How utterly strange it is, the way things of this sort come to pass! I met Richard Brooks all those years ago692—and what are the fruits of our meeting? That I took his house as a setting for the opening scene of The World in the Evening, and that I was able to call him and personally recommend Clint for the part in Cold Blood.