Wystan seems to be drinking heavily on this tour (as well he may) but not drastically. We sent him off with a bottle of gin and a bottle of dry vermouth. He has to have his martinis.
Things-which-might-have-been-expressed-differently department: On February 16 we went with the Masselinks to have supper with Anne Baxter. She served a very rich oxtail dish and next morning both Don and I felt terribly sick. So later I talked to Ben on the phone, asking if they had felt sick too, and they hadn’t. Ben remarked that this was surprising in Jo’s case, because if anyone got sick she was almost always the one who did, and he added, “You can try things out on her—like they give poisoned food to the dog.”
Last night, the sun set right on the end of the headland. Sad as always. The end of winter. No more ocean sunsets.
March 26. Easter Day, grey and sad. Don, feeling tense and wanting some action, has gone off to watch the hip “Love-in” at Elysian Park. I’ve been working. And I’m so happy to record that I have at last managed to get Hero going; fifty-four pages as of now. But I still have to find out what the book’s about, or rather, whether all the material I have belongs to one book or two.
Saw Gerald Heard finally, on the 22nd. He speaks with great difficulty, and so indistinctly that you sometimes can’t understand him. So you have to talk to him as much as possible. But he seems in very good spirits. I must say, I do see now why Michael doesn’t want people around. I think he is wrong, but not all that wrong. Gerald was obviously very pleased to see me.
Dodie Smith has read A Meeting. I feel she doesn’t really like it, and Don agrees with me. She praises it of course, but says like Wystan that both characters are unpleasant—she puts it with charac teristic tact, “One can’t fully like them!”
There really isn’t much else I want to say. I’m in a sad, slogging-along mood, but that’s not necessarily bad. I feel old. I don’t want to get sick. I keep praying and praying to Ramakrishna to let me feel his presence, so I can be strengthened by it to face whatever must come. Don is restless and unhappy, and we still haven’t heard from the Redfern Gallery about a possible show. I do hope that will go through; sometimes I am so worried about him, and yet I know of course that one is never really helped through circumstances, Don has just got to pull himself together somehow and stop moping and act. There is nothing I can do to help him, except pray for him.
April 7. Have kept right on with the rough draft of Hero-Father; now there are eighty pages. But I realize more and more clearly that I am going to rely chiefly on my mother’s diaries, which means that I’ll have to read through and somehow make copious extracts from fourteen or fifteen volumes at least! If only Richard would let me bring them back here with me, but I doubt if he will, and the alternative of having them xeroxed may not be practical, the books are so small.
Our plans still uncertain. No word from the Redfern about a show for Don. I still don’t know if I shall do the Shaw adaptation (Black Girl ) for the people downtown, or this film, or what. The BBC, thank God, have cancelled The Torrents of Spring, which I didn’t at all want to do anyway—or rather, they’ve given it to another writer to adapt. Willie Fox must have agreed to this.
As usual, what I really want is to stay here. But I know very well the book will make it absolutely necessary for me to go to England before too long. I should actually revisit Strensall, Frimley and Limerick,709 before writing the final draft.
Don had a dream, two or three nights ago, that Swami was trying to help him; they were meditating together. Very auspicious!
From a bookseller’s catalog: “CAPOTE. Autograph postcard from Brooklyn to an intimate friend in San Francisco, approx. 36 words, signed ‘Truman.’ The postcard is nicked around the edges due to the usual ‘tender’ handling the post office gives the mail these days. Also 3 or 4 small tack holes of unattributable origin. Autographic material of Mr. Capote is rare. $15.00.”
May 2. Now it has finally happened; we have some plans, or at least I do. I’m to leave for England on Saturday next, the 6th. Objectives: to see that the Mercury Gallery does something definite about giving Don a show. (This is really Rex Evans’s business, I just exert mild pressure from behind.) To give interviews to the press and television about A Meeting by the River, which will be published at the end of this month; this is Alan White’s idea, rather to my surprise, he never suggested any such thing before. To see Richard and somehow persuade him to let me take away M.’s diaries and any letters I may need, so that I can study them at leisure back here at home. To talk to Anthony Page about the adaptation of Wedekind’s Lulu. To apply pressure on the Shaw estate, if that is possible, to let us have the dramatic rights to Black Girl. To talk to Hugh French about the possibilities of a very vague job, to do with Anastasia.710
I’m to stay with Bob Regester for at least a week or ten days, which will be fun, at least, it will be a lot more fun than staying with anyone else who’s available.
Meanwhile, the news is definite that Gertrude Macy is going to get her forty percent, which will mean no more earnings from Cabaret for about five months. However, Robin French says that he believes Macy won’t be able to claim any percentage on the money from a probable film sale.
I have written 124 pages to date on the manuscript of Hero-Father, but a lot of that is just copying extracts from my father’s letters. What stops me now is that I see these letters will have to be interleaved with extracts from my mother’s diaries—or from her letters to Frank, if any of these have been preserved. More and more I see that this book will probably be a much straighter kind of narrative, a study of their marriage, primarily, without time jumps and other such tricks.
Sign of the times: extracted from a brochure of a new magazine, to be called Avant Garde. “Not for Everyone. Do you like Tom Wolfe? Edwardian haircuts? Simon and Garfunkel? MacBird!? Art Nouveau? Cassius Clay? Pot? Antique Clothes? Michael Caine? Lord of the Rings? The Pill? Did you like Andy Warhol’s films before they became fashionable? We have reason to believe that you can answer yes to most of the above. If so, you are a member of that small but influential group of tastemakers who set the cultural trends of the nation. And you are precisely the kind of person for whom a great new magazine called Avant Garde is edited. Avant Garde is a lavish, mirthful, daring new magazine of inordinate savoir faire and candor. . . . etc.”
On May 6 I flew to London. Stayed with Bob Regester. On May 18 I moved to Chester Square (because Bob had to leave his place) to stay with Marguerite [Lamkin]. From May 19 to 21 I was at Coventry, staying with the Buckinghams. Forster and Joe Ackerley were both there. I returned to London until May 25, when I went up to Disley to stay with Richard. Came back to London on May 31. Joe Ackerley died, June 4; this was the day I went down to see the Beesleys in Essex. I returned to California on June 9.
As I didn’t have my Olivetti with me there’s no record of any of this trip. I’ll write down a few memories as they occur to me, maybe.
June 15. I can at least say about the London trip that my missions were all more or less accomplished. I talked to the Mercury Gallery and at least produced a definite deadlock; they demand to see some actual drawings and paintings, as opposed to photographs, before they will give Don a show—and Don says to hell with them. I gave interviews in connection with A Meeting by the River. I saw Richard and, without any persuading, got all the letters and diaries I wanted to bring back here. I have taken a great liking to Anthony Page and let him know that I will definitely work on the Lulu adaptation. I have pushed the Shaw estate into a deadlock position—they demand script approval, we won’t work in speculation. I have examined the material connected with the Anastasia project and decided I won’t get involved in it.
Now here I am, faced with a long long grind of work; to read all the diaries and letters and see if they’ll compose into a book. Richard was very helpful. His memory is excellent and he read through the stuff I’ve already written and corrected a lot of the facts and answered all my questions. So now I should go ahead.
Don has done some very exciting paintings while I’ve been away. He has his show with Rex Evans in November to work for.
Gifts I brought back from London: a flowered shirt and tie for Don, plus three other ties. A somewhat psychedelic shopping bag for the Masselinks, plus a rubber grapefruit which squeaks, plus a button inscribed “Keep the Pope off the moon.”
Happiest day in England: June 3, when [Marguerite] took me to Cambridge and we had a picnic in a punt and got drunk. The Backs711 were full of punts. Undergraduates jumped into the water or pretended to fall in, with all their clothes on. The trees were enchantingly green. It was almost like being young, but better; no anxiety. We went into Corpus Christi and saw the portrait of Christopher Marlowe.712
The weekend with Forster and Ackerley was happy too, but I had to work hard to keep up the stimmung.713 It was strange and nurserylike, sharing a room with Morgan. He enjoyed it like a child, our talking in the morning from bed to bed. And he slept so peacefully—no grunts or groans or snores.
At Coventry I also met Harry Heckford who is writing this book about my work.714 He is a pale tall gloomy young man who at one time wanted to be a Catholic monk. His interest in my writing must come from a suppressed area of his psyche. I invited him to meet Morgan and Joe. When he arrived he was very glum and all Joe’s efforts to cheer him failed, even though he drank a bit. Then May Buckingham invited him to stay to supper and he did, but remained gloomy, earning bad marks from Morgan who likes bright young faces around him and why not.
June 16. This morning I heard from Heckford, enclosing an obituary of Joe by Maurice Ashley, rather chilly and omitting any reference to Joe’s two marvellous later books, so that you got the impression that he had given up writing years and years ago.
Heckford wants to know if Edward Upward “was possibly the beginning of the Twin or Elder-Brother thing, if I may put it in that way?” And he continues, “He seems always to have gone just that much further than you; he believed in Mortmere to a greater degree than you, and he joined the Communist party whereas you kept your head. Yet he hasn’t been half as creative as you. He was the out and out revolutionary and you were convinced by him as far as I can see, of the need for complaint and change. But why should you feel compelled to acknowledge his lead? It was as if he made you feel guilty about having a comfortable life.”
I tried to answer this in a letter to Heckford this morning, pointing out that what I really felt guilty about in relation to Edward was the charge of frivolity, unseriousness and the inclination to show off. Now I know that I am serious, even though my manner is unserious and even though I do admittedly show off. But I feel I somehow wandered away from answering the question.
It was actually from Edward that I heard about Joe’s death. He came up from the Isle of Wight to see me in London on June 6; we had lunch with Olive Mangeot and then went for a walk. Edward talked about his new novel, the second volume of the trilogy, which he has almost finished—at least to the point where he will show it to me. It was only at the end of our long walk, just as we were approaching Cresswell Place again, to have tea with Olive, that Edward remarked that he had read of Joe’s death that morning in the paper. I hadn’t seen the notice and since Edward had never known Joe he hadn’t thought it worth mentioning earlier.
Yesterday I started work on the first of M.’s diaries, 1883. It is going to be a long haul but fascinating, especially if I do a good deal each day so as to keep a sense of the continuity. I am typing out anything which seems even remotely of interest. This book will end up longer than a Dickens novel.
One of the things which strikes me about the first diary is that it isn’t nearly as “period” as one would have expected. There are very few period expressions and few details which would seem dated, even twenty or thirty years later.
I ought at least to start messing a little with the Wedekind material; roughing out a translation just for my own use. Even if the job comes to nothing, it wouldn’t be too much effort to do that, and it’s the only way of finding out how I really feel about the plays. I have to discover a tone of voice.
Thick glum fog all today, though we had been promised afternoon sunshine.
June 20. On the 17th I went to Vedanta Place for the Father’s Day lunch. Usually it’s unpleasantly hot, but this year it was so cold that I was afraid Swami would get a chill, sitting outdoors. But he had put on thick long underwear and, he told me, taken a split of champagne in the bathroom before emerging to face the cameras of the devotees. He is looking wonderfully beautiful and calm and silver and happy nowadays, and his health seems quite good although he has to have a prostate operation in August. In the middle of lunch he turned to me and said quietly but with great emphasis, “Give Don my love,” and he took my arm and pressed it, as though he were actually shooting it full of love for me to pass on to Don as a transfusion, later.
That evening we had Jennifer Selznick and Ivan and Kate Moffat to supper. Ivan gave a very funny imitation of Paddy Lee-Fermor715 teasing Richard Burton, who was making a pompous speech. Ivan also recited a sort of prose poem about his return to America as a G.I. after the war and his feeling of joy in the innocent and undamaged life of rural America and his feeling that it was just about to burst forth into a postwar flowering. This prose poem was false and embarrassing because it was so obviously a rehearsed effect. The evening seemed strained anyhow; Jennifer was restless and somehow excluded, and the conversation wasn’t general although there were only the five of us. However, when I talked to Jennifer on the phone later she said they had all agreed on the way home that they had had a marvellous evening because Don and I were so full of “abstract love” towards them—whatever that may mean. We are in fact very fond of Ivan and Jennifer and prepared to be very fond of Kate when we know her better, but there’s nothing abstract about that.
John Rechy came to supper on the 18th, and was very friendly and full of quite entertaining talk about himself—the way he smiles at himself in the glass after working out until his muscles are all pumped up; and the sleeping pills he has to take and the ear plugs he has to wear because of his neurotic sensitivity to barking dogs, he strains his ears to hear them, and finds out the phone numbers of their owners and calls them, etc., etc. He puts on a great show, in his tremendous and rather sympathetic eagerness to please. I do hope his new novel isn’t as awful as he makes it sound.
Last night we had supper with Chris Wood, who seems to be seriously considering returning to England. He says however that he would never leave here until after Gerald’s death (Gerald has had another stroke and couldn’t be visited at all, last week). Also, he doesn’t want to take Paul Sorel to England and he doesn’t want Beau [his dachshund] to go through their quarantine. We talked a lot about Joe Ackerley, of course. It seems almost certain that Joe didn’t suffer at all. He was certainly very lively at Coventry, drinking a lot but not excessively. He had complained to his sister Nancy of pains in the chest; but when she found him it was in the normal attitude of sleep, he didn’t seem to have tried to get out of bed.
A letter from Richard; he says that he doesn’t think the cute Danish son-in-law will leave the Bradleys’ house for some time, so they are all very crowded. He was taking them over to Wyberslegh “where there is more room to move about”—but I’m quite unable to picture what they would actually do there. Richard tells amazingly little in his letters. For instance, I suppose he has gone back to drinking. All the time I was with him in Disley he didn’t drink a drop, and neither did I; but not one word was said about this.
Speaking of Disley reminds me of another happy day, or rather morning. It was on May 29—there was a break in the rainy weather, just for a few hours, and I walked up to the Bowstones,716 probably only a four or five mile walk but a long one for me after all these years in nonpedestrian Los Angeles. I was exhilarated by my own energy. “Such bloom rose around and so many birds’ cries, / That I sang for delight as I followed the way.”717 But was I really attending to the scenery? No. I
was mostly thinking about Don—wishing, in a way, that he was with me, but even more that he could see me striding along and laugh at old Dobbin feeling the Spring in his bones. I laughed to myself, picturing him laughing at me.
June 22. The prospect of these letters and diaries is quite discouraging, though I enjoy actually reading them. Today it was far more of an effort to get Granny Emmy’s letters into (more or less) chronological order than to read through Kathleen’s diary for 1891, as far as September 2, when her ex-beau, Anthony Thornhill, got married and Kathleen kept the leaf of the quotation calendar for that day: “Who seeks, and will not take when once ’tis offered, / Shall never find it more.” No doubt this seemed extra tragically ironical to Kathleen because it’s from Antony and Cleopatra (II.vii)!
As for the texture of Kathleen’s life as a girl of 22-23, it seems to be made of dances, country house visits, gallery going, lecture going, church going, cricket watching, novel reading, letter writing, shopping—all somewhat compulsive. Most compulsive of all is a trip abroad, with catalogs of “sights.” But then, who can write of such trips but D.H. Lawrence? Nevertheless, all this while, Kathleen was getting on with her drawing and sketching and watercolors.
Poor Bill van Petten is in St. Joseph’s hospital again with his detached retina. He seems wonderfully cheerful, says that he sees visions with his bandaged eyes, a vast ebony dome scarred by fires, perhaps sacrificial torches. But now he can’t go on the trip he had been so greatly looking forward to, with Artie and another teenager, to Outer Mongolia.
Last night I read from the Gospel at Vedanta Place, for the last time till fall. A very big audience and the feeling of the end of the season and the hammy performance of a classic, like an old singer singing Carmen; everybody knows it by heart and enjoys it simply as an occasion.