Man Without a Shadow

  No, I’m good at seeing through illusions—but what is the truth underneath them? That I can’t see at present. We are so closely enmeshed in illusions that the explosion of one or two of them makes no difference. On the street corner below, a crowd of Teddy-boys stand most evenings and whistle at the girls who go by. They have probably all had sexual experience; yet every girl who passes represents a taboo that they long to break. Illusions. I put on a record—it is Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique. More illusions, another poor devil who thought the universe owed him love. A self-betrayer, as Bill Payne would call him. Give us love, give us illusions. These cinema posters—Escape to Happiness—desert islands, golden sands, handsome men, Beyond the Blue Horizon, beautiful girls in motor-boats on the Riviera. But someone has carefully decorated the girl’s bathing costume with a vagina and pubic hairs. This is what horrifies me. The entertainment industry depends on giving the public ‘what it wants’, and what it wants seems to be symbols of kittenish innocence—Brigit Bardot and Marilyn Monroe. But a lot deeper, there is this violence, the desire of a starved tiger for flesh.

  And this is something, at least, of the reality that Cunningham wants to cover up with his talk about Grimoires and unutterable secrets.

  Nov. 17th.

  I was interrupted yesterday by Carlotta. My first reaction on seeing her was irritation; I thought I’d got rid of her when Cunningham took her off home. However, she wanted to talk to me, and she asked me if Cunningham might turn up while she talked; when I said I wasn’t sure, she insisted on going to the pub on the corner. There we found a quiet table in the corner and I bought beers; she leaned over and asked me solemnly if I thought Cunningham was sane! I replied that, on the whole, I did. She then said: ‘I think he is perhaps the most dangerous man I have ever met.’ From the way she said it, I knew exactly what she meant: that she was somehow terrified of him, but that he fascinated her. For some reason, I suddenly felt sorry for her. Yes, I think I know why. She sat there, looking so solid and German, with her attractive, squarish face, excellent nose and lips and high cheekbones, and her eyes looking absurdly tragic, and I suddenly thought of Cunningham’s story about seducing the princess; I imagine the princess as the opposite of Carlotta (although perhaps I’m being romantic)—slim, rather pale and with the curious self-confidence that generations of money and servants can give. And I know Carlotta hasn’t a chance anyway; I imagine she’d excite a slightly sadistic element in Cunningham. However, I couldn’t tell her this, so I simply asked her questions. First of all, she asked me if I was jealous of Cunningham. I asked her why I should be. She then said dramatically: ‘You know I stayed with him the other night?’ I said yes, I had expected that. It’s easier to tell a girl that you don’t object to her infidelities than to tell her you don’t care about her; yet they amount to the same thing.

  She then went on to tell me what had happened. She described again her sensation on first meeting Cunningham—the strange feeling that she was being violated by him without any physical contact. This feeling continued to obsess her for the rest of the evening. She said that she had a sense of being dominated by him. I can’t convey the way she said all this. She evidently takes herself very seriously; I can’t take her half so seriously. She explained it with her eyes downcast, in a low voice, as if we were talking about great mysteries. At the same time, I sensed that she didn’t look at me because she was afraid I’d be laughing at her—which I suppose I was. She declared that it was ‘horrible’, that she hated it, and yet wanted it. I felt this was partly untrue, but couldn’t be bothered to try and get at the truth.

  When they went back together, she was in a state of excitement, for she felt that something awful might happen to her. Cunningham remarked that it was too late to get her home, and that she could have the spare bed. She took this to be an excuse to persuade her to stay, and made no objection. However, to her amazement, Cunningham took her into a room upstairs, made up the bed, and left her almost immediately, warning her sardonically to lock her door in case Oliver tried to get in! When he had gone, she locked the door. (She claims she did this because she didn’t want him to come in; I think she did it out of pique, or perhaps to force him to knock and beg her to open.) Immediately, she felt oppressed by the room. There were several locked trunks in it, and a table on a raised platform was covered with black cloth. She said she felt instinctively that there was something wrong with the room. She even pulled one of the trunks aside to see if by any chance it concealed another entrance to the room. She then undressed and got into bed. She woke an hour later and was aware of someone making love to her. (I pressed her to be specific, and she said she felt someone lying on top of her, actually having sexual intercourse.) She wondered how Cunningham had got in, but nevertheless kept her eyes closed. Suddenly, something made her open them. Immediately, she realized she was alone in the bed, and that the sense of weight on her body had vanished. She found the room oppressive—it smelt of some scent or incense, and she suspected that this had induced the illusion. So she got out of bed, and opened the window. It was a windy night, and she had to cover her face with the bedclothes to avoid the draught. She then felt ‘safe’, and went to sleep again, this time lying on her stomach. Some time later, she was awakened by the sensation of someone in the bed again. This time she kept her eyes closed for about ten minutes. All the time, her visitor continued to make love to her, while she lay perfectly still. Suddenly, tempted no doubt by her position, he tried to make love ‘in the Italian manner’. By this time, she was quite certain that her former experience had been a dream, but that Cunningham was now definitely in the bed. So she opened her eyes and said, ‘No.’ Immediately, she was again aware of being alone. This time she lay awake for more than an hour before she went back to sleep. It happened a third time. She kept her eyes closed and let her ‘visitor’ make love to her. ‘He is a pervert,’ she said. I pressed her to explain, but she refused to be more specific. However, I gather that this went on for some time—no doubt she didn’t want to risk having him vanish by raising objections—and it wasn’t until he hurt her suddenly that she opened her eyes. Immediately, she was alone in the bed, although she said that the state of the bed convinced her that she had not been alone a few minutes before. She lay awake, and the dawn came through the curtains. She then got up and hurried off to the tube station. She did not see Cunningham. She left a note on the pillow saying ‘Thank you’, then was struck by its ambiguity, and tore it up. On arriving home, she said that she was suddenly struck with the most awful cramps of the stomach, and had to lie down for an hour. I asked her what she thought had happened, and she said that she supposed Cunningham had wakened up, found her gone, and somehow projected his rage to Kentish Town!

  I find all this interesting, simply as a demonstration of human gullibility. I don’t believe for a moment that Cunningham really possessed her in the night. But I am convinced that he somehow induced her to believe that he would.

  The next problem is: why should he? If he wanted to sleep with her, why didn’t he go ahead and do so? The only reason that seems plausible is that he intends to use her for some other purpose in the future, and wants to make her feel thoroughly dominated first. If I know Carlotta, a night in bed with Cunningham would have left her slightly contemptuous, again mistress of herself. This wouldn’t matter if he only meant to sleep with her once. But what other purpose could he have?

  I asked her what she intended to do—if she meant to avoid him in future. She said she would like to, but couldn’t. Then she said—this impressed me—‘I think he is capable of doing something terrible to me.’ It didn’t impress me because I thought it true—I don’t. It impressed me because she wants to believe it true.

  I didn’t want Carlotta on my hands for the rest of the evening, so I advised her to go and see Cunningham, telling her that I thought he would be alone now. She accepted this idea immediately, and went off with a predatory gleam in her eye. I the
n went in again.

  Kirsten was still playing the piano, but he stopped occasionally to talk, and I could hear Diana’s voice. They, of course, could hear me moving around, I started reading about Major Weir again. Then, to my surprise, my door opened and Diana came in. I was still annoyed and resentful—in fact, I’d accustomed myself to the idea that there was no longer anything between us. So I got up, grabbed her and kissed her. She talked in a whisper, said Kirsten (who was still playing) thought she had gone down to the shop, and that she wanted to ask me if I would try and keep Cunningham away from him. She said she was certain Cunningham was an evil influence. I wanted to quarrel with her, so I said I thought she was wrong, and that Cunningham could probably get Kirsten’s music published. Then I asked her directly to come to bed. She said she hadn’t time. I said of course she had—Kirsten wouldn’t know that there wasn’t a long queue in the shop, and pushed her on to the bed. I expected her to rush off, and verify my feeling that last night meant nothing to her. But, to my amazement, she yielded immediately, and let me possess her without even taking off any of her clothes. When it was over she stood up, smoothed down her dress, smiled at me in a funny way, as if to ask: ‘Are you satisfied now?’ and went out. I become convinced that I shall never understand women. Diana is a puzzle to me. Why is she so undemonstrative? Is she capable of caring about anybody? And how can anyone who seems so shy and demure give herself to that bookmaking type?

  I’ve given up worrying about these questions.

  Half an hour later, Diana came up again and asked me if I’d like to go down and have something to eat. I said I’d eaten, but went down with some wine anyway. Kirsten, however, wouldn’t drink. He only wanted to enthuse to me about Cunningham again, and to say that he was sure that, with Cunningham’s help, he’d manage to get Varney the Vampire presented. Diana showed herself more practical than I’d expected, and asked me what I knew about Cunningham’s relation to Oliver. I told them frankly what I knew, including the finances of the matter. Kirsten asked me directly: ‘Do you think he hopes to make money out of me?’ I said I didn’t think it unlikely. Then he laughed and said: ‘Well, if he can make money out of my work, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t. I’ve been trying for ten years, without success.’

  I was struck by Kirsten’s proprietary air about Diana—a thing that hadn’t struck me before. It is obvious that he wouldn’t dream of mistrusting her, any more than he’d mistrust his own right hand. And yet, as she demurely made coffee, I kept realizing that I had only just possessed her on my bed.

  We sat and talked for two hours—I find Kirsten a sympathetic man, although his lack of discrimination is disturbing—he should have been born a hundred years ago, when his flowery language and cranky idealism were fashionable. Then he played me Schumann and Brahms until late. I heard someone go up to my room, but I decided not to show myself—it was probably Carlotta and I didn’t feel like playing confidant any more. I drank most of the wine myself.

  Nov. 18th.

  I spent last night at Cunningham’s place. He is undoubtedly one of the most amazing men I have ever met, and I think I now begin to understand what he’s after. Until I met him, Austin was probably the most remarkable person I’d ever known (I’d still like the two of them to meet). And in some odd way, Cunningham reminds me of Austin. Both have an intelligence and sensibility well above average; and yet both somehow strike me as ‘wrong’. I cannot explain what I mean at the moment. Perhaps later.

  At mid-afternoon I went over to see Cunningham, sick of trying to write with the noise of Kirsten’s piano. Oliver told me that it was Cunningham’s meditation period, but I went up to see anyway. Sure enough, there was Cunningham, wearing a voluminous yellow robe, sitting in the lotus position and contemplating his navel. He didn’t seem to notice me, and I was sure that he’d make it a point of honour not to be disturbed by me, so I sat down, picked up a book—it was one of Suzuki’s volumes on Zen—and read for an hour. Cunningham’s position brought a certain nostalgia, for I remember when I thought that I was cut out to be a Hindu ascetic sitting cross-legged on Mount Meru. Why did I give up the idea? Because I suspect that that kind of sainthood can only be developed to a certain extent, and then becomes redundant, like an overblown rose. When the idea first comes, it is tremendous, a great revelation. You’ve become accustomed to seeing things through a mist of emotions and desires and motives; suddenly, you see it through the eyes of the ascetic, and it is no longer confusing; it is strangely pure and simple, like a Japanese painting—like Hokusai’s picture of Fujiyama and the wave. It suddenly seems that all people are wasting their lives and their time in their silly preoccupations, while you have stumbled on the only thing that matters, the answer to life itself, the need to seek ‘salvation’, the need for truth and intensification of consciousness and the way to become a god. But as soon as you try following this new way, it becomes more complicated; you promptly lose sight of what you were after, and realize that your simple attempt to reach out and grasp it was like a child reaching for the sun. It remains an aim and an ideal, but there’s no point in sitting cross-legged. You can stare at your navel till you burst; you don’t get any freer.

  At the end of an hour, Cunningham woke up, and greeted me as if he didn’t know I was in the room—even asked me how long I’d been waiting. We then got into a discussion of Zen and meditation, and I made the comments I’ve written down here. This immediately led us into what now seems to me the most exciting and fruitful discussion I’ve ever had. We went out for a walk, had a meal, and Cunningham was completely frank with me. Now I begin to understand his plans, I see their audacity, and realize that he has more than a touch of greatness. And yet I’m also aware of some weakness in him, some flaw, that I find difficult to describe.

  We didn’t get around to discussing these plans until late at night, but there is no point in detailing our other discussions. All the same, it was obvious that he felt I understood him completely, and that he could be completely frank with me.

  He began by asking me if I thought it could be chance that had brought the four of us together—Kirsten, Oliver, Cunningham and myself. ‘Let us not be modest about this. We are probably the four most remarkable men in London. How is it, then, that we have come together like this? I believe there is some strange destiny that brings together men who will have a great effect upon the age. Think of Nietzsche and Wagner, Schumann and Brahms, Goethe and Schiller. . . . The great men gravitate together.’ I was so flattered by this remark that I didn’t point out that most great men meet when they’ve become sufficiently famous to be able to seek one another out.

  What he then went on to say—and I was struck by his penetration—is that many such men have no capacity for making their own way independently, and he instanced Kirsten and Oliver. He might have added myself. A man of genius is often helpless on his own; banded with one or two others, his strength increases a hundredfold.

  I now began to see the nature of his idea. He himself, he explained, is one of these people who are fated to be rather than to do. His poetry, he said modestly, is fine, but not for the present age. On the other hand—as he has already proved with Oliver—he has a capacity for getting himself taken notice of. So what could be luckier than the four of us meeting like this? Plainly we are predestined to help one another.

  He then went on to explain that he owns a small island off the coast of Sardinia—only a few acres, with a deserted farmhouse. But why should we not move there, with our respective women, and form a community that would live together on completely anarchic principles? Everything would be shared, including the women. We would put into action Rabelais’s precept: ‘Do what you will’. His problem so far had been lack of money. Oliver’s painting and Kirsten’s invention would probably supply us with money. As soon as our community became known, we would attract great artists from all over the world, and rich women would beg to be allowed to give us mo
ney.

  Cunningham is a good talker, and I must admit that he had me enthusiastic after ten minutes. But at this point, I interrupted him to ask what he had in mind for the two of us; I have so far never made a penny from writing, so can’t contribute much. Cunningham asked me about my private income; I explained that it was only a few pounds a week. He wanted to know if it wouldn’t be possible to get access to the capital; I said no, it wouldn’t, since this was against the terms of the will. (It isn’t—although I doubt whether I could get the money as easily as that. I wasn’t going to tell Cunningham, who is a first-class shark where money is concerned.) Cunningham then said that I could probably sell my annuity for a lump sum; I cautiously agreed. But if Cunningham’s plan involves losing my narrow margin of independence, I shall drop out of the scheme. I think he guessed my thoughts, because he said suddenly that perhaps it would be a better idea to keep my money in reserve, in case the whole scheme fails and we’re all on our uppers. In that case, the three thousand pounds—for which he seems to think we could sell my annuity—would get us out of trouble.

  I was attracted by the idea, but thought it cranky. Besides, I hate travel, and think I’m probably too much of a lone wolf to commit myself to living in any ‘community’. But now Cunningham became fiendishly persuasive. He said that we needn’t think about going to the island until we’ve made sure that we can make the community ‘work’ by experiments in London. He then hinted obscurely at ‘masters’ somewhere in the East—men from whom he derives his ‘powers’—and who, if they can be persuaded to support the venture, will guarantee its success.