Christopher and His Kind (33 page)

Christopher and Heinz did their best to give Jimmy and Giles an appropriate, ungloomy send-off. They ate some memorable meals, under Gerald Hamilton's guidance. The best was in a famous restaurant's private dining room where a Belgian royal personage had once entertained his mistresses. Gerald said that, after supper, the waiter used to bring in the key of the room on a salver and present it to the personage. The room still had a couch in it. The four of them also frequented a large noisy working-class dance hall where nobody minded if men danced together.

To Christopher, during this visit, both Jimmy and Giles appeared tragically vulnerable—Giles because he looked physically fragile, boyishly pretty; Jimmy because of the softness of his nature. The fact that Jimmy was an ex-soldier seemed irrelevant; the peacetime British Army couldn't have prepared him for the Brigade in combat. It was noticeable that Jimmy had stopped repeating his revolutionary slogans; his present predicament was too personal for dialectics. Like Giles, he made a brave show of high spirits.

*   *   *

1937 opened with an announcement from Stephen that he, too, was going to Spain, with the writer Cuthbert Worsley. They were to find out what had happened to the crew of a Russian ship, the
Komsomol,
which the Italians had sunk in the Mediterranean. It was suspected—correctly, as was later proved—that the crew was interned by the rebels. This was an assignment which any properly accredited neutral correspondent might have undertaken without much risk. But Stephen wasn't neutral. He was a recently joined member of the Communist Party and a long-time publicly declared enemy of Fascism wherever it appeared. He was being sent on this investigation by the
Daily Worker.
Therefore, if he and Cuthbert did penetrate behind the rebel lines, they would risk getting arrested as spies and imprisoned or even shot. Luckily, when they tried to go from Gibraltar to Cádiz, they were turned back at the frontier by Franco's guards. Stephen then left Spain but very soon returned. This time, he saw Jimmy Younger. Jimmy had been appalled by his war experiences and was desperate to get out of the Brigade and leave the country.

On January 11, a telegram arrived from Wystan in London. His departure for Spain had been delayed but now he was about to start. Next day, Christopher met him in Paris, at the Hôtel Quai Voltaire.

The British press had turned Wystan into big news. Even those editors who obviously regarded him with cynicism or ill will helped to publicize his journey—to his own embarrassment, for he was afraid of being prevented by the authorities from entering Spain. To thousands of young people he was now a hero—a Byron or at least a Rupert Brooke, going forth to war. Byron had written that “the land of honorable death” awaited him. Brooke had consoled himself with the thought that the foreign place where he fell would become “for ever England.” Wystan's dedication to his chosen cause was certainly as sincere as theirs had been, but his reactions were absurdly different. The poem he had just finished, later to be called “Danse Macabre,” was a dazzling explosion of ironic fireworks and a send-up of the Warrior-Hero which seemed to poke fun at Wystan himself.

Christopher could never have done alone what Wystan was doing. He was too timid to have taken such a step independently. Would he have gone to Spain with Wystan, if it hadn't been for Heinz? I think he would, despite his timidity, because he could have found no other good enough excuse for staying behind. As things were, he didn't feel guilty about this, only regretful for what he was missing.

Christopher wasn't seriously afraid that Wystan would be killed in battle. The government would probably insist on his making propaganda for them, rather than fighting. Still, Byron and Brooke had died by disease, not weapons, and a war zone is always full of potential accidents. This was a solemn parting, despite all their jokes. It made them aware how absolutely each relied on the other's continuing to exist.

Their friendship was rooted in schoolboy memories and the mood of its sexuality was adolescent. They had been going to bed together, unromantically but with much pleasure, for the past ten years, whenever an opportunity offered itself, as it did now. They couldn't think of themselves as lovers, yet sex had given friendship an extra dimension. They were conscious of this and it embarrassed them slightly—that is to say, the sophisticated adult friends were embarrassed by the schoolboy sex partners. This may be the reason why they made fun, in private and in print, of each other's physical appearance: Wystan's “stumpy immature fingers” and “small pale yellow eyes screwed painfully together”; Christopher's “squat” body and “enormous” nose and head. The adults were trying to dismiss the schoolboys' sexmaking as unimportant. It was of profound importance. It made the relationship unique for both of them.

On January 13, Christopher saw Wystan off on the train. Wystan had a bad cold but was otherwise cheerful. His only anxiety was about his luggage, which had been sent ahead, by mistake, to the Franco-Spanish frontier. He was afraid that it was lost forever. Luckily, he was wrong.

*   *   *

During January, Christopher worked on translating the lyrics which are printed between the chapters of the
Dreigroschenroman,
the novel which Brecht based on his
Dreigroschenoper.
This translation of the novel, by Desmond Vesey, was called
A Penny for the Poor.

I think Christopher's translations are generally adequate. But he made one mistake which is worth describing because it was deliberate and because it illustrates a fundamental difference in outlook between the translator and his author. “Polly Peachum's Song” tells how Polly behaved to her suitors before she met the right one, Macheath. In each verse, a boat is mentioned. Polly and one of the suitors get into it. In the first two verses, the boat is cast loose from the shore, and Polly adds, “But that was as far as things could go.” In the third and last verse, however, the boat is “tied to the shore,” when she has got into it with Macheath.

Christopher found this incomprehensible, because he took it for granted that the proper poetic metaphor for sexual surrender would be the casting loose of the boat. So, quite arbitrarily, disregarding the meaning of the German text, he transposed the lines and had the boat tied up in the first two verses, only to be cast loose in the last verse when Polly is possessed by Macheath.

No one protested. The book appeared with Christopher's version of the poem. It was only when Christopher met Brecht for the first time, in California about six years later, that he had his misunderstanding corrected. Brecht told him mildly, with the unemphatic bluntness which was so characteristic of him: “A boat has to be tied up before you can fuck in it.”

*   *   *

No news came from Mexico City. Christopher took this calmly because the lawyer himself had now announced that he was going to Mexico, on other business, at the end of the month, and would be able to find out what was happening.

There was also another, stronger reason for optimism. During a recent visit to London, the lawyer had talked to some officials at the Home Office and inquired about Heinz's case. According to the lawyer, it was indeed on “moral” grounds that Heinz had been refused permission to land in England; but the officials admitted that the refusal was only based on suspicion and might be reconsidered. The lawyer had therefore reapplied for Heinz's admission, insisting that Heinz was a respectable person with highly respectable friends, such as Mr. E. M. Forster. Forster's name was said to have made a most favorable impression on the officials. And Forster himself followed this up by writing them a letter.

So, for a few days, it seemed that the Mexican passport might become unnecessary. Then, however, the lawyer was informed by the Home Office that Heinz's application had been refused. Unofficially, he was advised to try again, later in the year. As a routine precaution, the authorities would refuse to admit any alien whose background was even slightly questionable, until after the coronation of George VI in May.

*   *   *

On February 3, Christopher went to London.
The Ascent of F6
was soon to be produced at the Mercury Theatre in Notting Hill Gate. Wystan and he had agreed that he should watch the rehearsals, since Wystan didn't expect to return from Spain for some time.

As before, Rupert Doone was the director. Christopher got along with him much better than Wystan had. Being both small men and both prima donnas, Rupert and Christopher were natural allies as long as they didn't compete; and there was no question of their competing. Their roles were clearly defined. Christopher sincerely admired Rupert's talent and was charmed and amused by his behavior—the regal way he carried his head, the absoluteness of his gestures of command, his uninhibited treatment of actors, especially when they were giving him trouble. “He hit high C,” Rupert would say, “but I hit D.” Rupert behaved as Christopher imagined himself behaving, in his fantasies, but never could, in real life. In public, Christopher showed Rupert the greatest respect, never speaking to the actors about their parts except when Rupert had invited him to do so.

The Mercury Theatre was a tiny building. Below the auditorium was a basement in which the Ballet Rambert rehearsed; there was constant running up and down stairs and mingling of the ballet with the
F6
company. Christopher fancied one of the Rambert dancers and summoned up the courage to ask him to come out to a nearby teashop. The young man was also acting as assistant stage manager and found it entirely natural to be asked by anybody to do or fetch anything. Registering only the word “tea,” he darted off, returned with a cup of it, and vanished again before Christopher could even thank him. Momentarily frustrated, Christopher consulted Rupert, who took the affair in hand without hesitation. Stopping the young man in the passage, he said imperiously, “Will you please show Mr. Isherwood round the theatre?” The young man was bewildered for a moment. There was almost nothing to show. Besides, he was aware that Christopher had been coming to the Mercury for several days already and must know the premises inside out. Then, grasping the situation, he grinned and said: “Well, that's the stage—” And thus the ice was broken.

One of the bonds between Christopher and Rupert was a shared admiration for Mickey Rooney, then a world-famous teenager with a lewd Irish grin. On the day of the dress rehearsal, they were unable to resist the temptation to go and see him in his latest film,
The Devil Takes the Count
(called
The Devil Is a Sissy
in the United States). Having once sat down in the cinema, they couldn't tear themselves away from this outrageous but potent tearjerker until it ended. By the time they reached the Mercury, the cast had been kept waiting for nearly an hour. Rupert, showing not the faintest trace of guilt and offering no explanations, started work immediately.

For Christopher, the production of
F6
was an even more enjoyable experience than the shooting of
Little Friend,
because it was such an intimate affair. Rupert, Robert Medley, Benjamin Britten, and he became united like a family in making their decisions; there were no studio executives to interfere with them. I remember Robert as large, smiling, unflustered, always ready with suggestions for scenic effects and solutions to technical problems; Ben as pale, boyish, indefatigable, scribbling music on his lap, then hurrying to the piano to play it. I can't remember Christopher doing anything in particular, except laughing a great deal.

On the opening night, February 26, the audience was as big as the theater would hold. Kathleen and Richard were there and also Wystan's mother. Beside this solemn intense woman with her austere nose, Kathleen seemed frivolously feminine. Kathleen always had the impression that Mrs. Auden disapproved of her.

If
F6
didn't quite succeed as a whole, it at least pleased many people by the variousness of its parts. The duologue between Mr. A. and Mrs. A. formed an independent playlet, which nearly everybody enjoyed. Ransom's rantings and his woozy conversation with the Abbot of the monastery provided necessary tragic relief from the BBC comedians. Hedli Anderson's singing of Britten's music was a performance which needed no support—especially in the overwhelming funeral dirge, “Stop all the clocks.” Doone saw to it that the changes of scene and mood were made very quickly.

The effect of Edward Lamp's off-scene destruction by the avalanche was unexpectedly convincing. It was created by setting up a microphone in the backstage lavatory and flushing the toilet. The amplified noise was awesome.

(When
F6
was performed in New York by the Drove Players, in 1939, its director, Forrest Thayr, Jr., created an even more powerful effect in a totally different way. The play was staged in a studio with a staircase at one end of it. This staircase represented the mountain. The actors leaned over the rail of the staircase, looking down toward the ledge on which Lamp was supposed to be standing. They began yelling to him that the avalanche was coming—but no sounds were made backstage to represent it. There was a pause of dead silence. Then, somewhere in the back of the building, with terrific violence, a door was slammed.)

*   *   *

Wystan returned from Spain on March 4, sooner than expected. He was unwilling to talk about his experiences, but they had obviously been unsatisfactory; he felt that he hadn't been allowed to be really useful. Also, he had received certain negative and disturbing impressions which I shall mention later.

On the night of his return, he went with Christopher to see the play. Not long after the curtain had gone up, the changes in the text made by Christopher and Rupert began to be evident. They were none of them drastic. But Wystan turned to Christopher and said, in a loud reproachful whisper:
“My dear,
what have you
done
to it?” Most of the audience heard him and were amused.