Liberation (9 page)

Morgan looked almost exactly the same in the face, the clear blue eyes, the long nose, the pink complexion, the mussed-up hair (except that it's white) but he is fatter and more stooped—he looks almost as if he had a hump—and much shakier. He moves insecurely with a stick; but he does move and the sight, at least of one eye, is actually better. In Coventry, when I last saw him,
²⁰
he was being read to; now he reads to himself. In Coventry—probably partly because of more drink, more comfort and it being a less chilly time of year, he seemed drowsier, lazier and less mentally alert than now. Today, most of the time, he was obviously able to follow all that was said and join in the conversation whenever he wanted to.

His affection, as always, was touching, childlike. He loves being hugged and kissed. “How extraordinary!” he kept saying; and I took this to mean that because he sees me so seldom and therefore keeps me as a creature of his memory, the fact that I actually exist in the flesh seems extraordinary to him. I asked him if I had changed a lot. “A bit thicker, that's all.” He made me turn around to look at me. While we were embracing I felt a sort of fake, because I was consciously going through the motions, wishing only to do what would please him and also very much aware of Mark looking on. But actually I'm not faking, on such occasions, it's only that I take so long to come to a boil. I only felt the emotion of this meeting when I was in the train going back to London.

Of course it was hard work. I reached sweatily for scraps of news, anecdotes, questions about mutual friends. And he reached too. Do we embarrass each other a bit? Yes. Have we always? Somewhat, maybe. But oddly enough that has little to do with affection. And isn't the same thing true, to a much smaller degree, of me and Edward?

Talking about his health, Morgan said, “I have been a little displeased with myself lately.” But he made it clear he was only referring to his physical health. (I wondered if he has a skin cancer problem; there seemed to be something growing in his cheek.) I reminded him of how he had said to me long ago: “I hope I shan't get depressed—no, I don't think I shall.” And he told me that, on the whole, he hadn't. I also reminded him of a letter he had written in which he said that he was staying with [Leonard and Virginia Woolf ] and must therefore be careful to seal it up at once, not leave it lying around open. “I'm
glad
I wrote that,” Morgan said, and this was one of the few times he showed any resentment. Speaking of Vanessa Bell he said she was much easier to get along with than her sister, and how Virginia would suddenly turn on you and attack you.

Morgan said he had liked getting the Order of Merit. I said, “It's the only decoration really worth getting,” and he said, “I've come to feel that—now I've got one.” He said he had been rereading some of his early writing (I should have asked him what, exactly, but like an idiot I didn't) and he had liked it very much. He added, “The creative power has gone now, but I don't mind.” He has a marvellous flair for saying such things without the least pathos— merely with mild surprise. He then said that he hoped he'd “pop off quickly” when the time came.

We had tea with Mark in his rooms. A gaunt, long-haired rather attractive [. . .] geneticist from Caius named Richard Le Page was there. Morgan remarked three times to me how pale he looked, seeming quite concerned; “He must be ill.”

Our meal in hall in the evening was bad; the meat was tough. Morgan got quite enraged. “How awful that I should have brought you here to eat this
filth
.” There one saw a characteristic flare-up of senile, childlike rage, and he sulked a bit during the rest of the meal. There we did seem out of the picture. Term is just over and the only remaining dons were young—they seemed to be mostly mathematicians with Ban-the-Bomb attitudes. (The cutest of them, Denis Mollison, volunteered to drive me back to the station and was charmingly friendly and genuinely concerned about Morgan's health.) The two estates of the college are now divided in a different way. The undergraduates don't have to stand when the dons come in. They eat between certain hours as they like, with self service. The high table is down on their level, moved to the other end of the hall. In a year or two there will be coeducation. And the lady dons will move the high table back and reintroduce all the protocol and ceremony, no doubt.

This visit to Morgan was really very moving. Yes, he has survived, he is past ninety and he functions. But at what a price! How slow and how alone! It is his speed that isolates him, for he is surrounded by people. He has fallen out of the running. I think he would really like to stay with the Buckinghams all the time and be made comfortable. But perhaps not. He looks after himself with amazing doggedness, taking ages to switch off the light, pick up clothes from the floor, shut the door of his rooms. He is under sentence of death, just as visibly as if he were lying on his deathbed. And yet he enjoys conversation, affection, food, sherry. He told me he had put his homosexual stories out of his mind (I think he only meant, had ceased to think of them) but when I talked about
Maurice
he showed pleasure and he told me he was glad to think of all this again and wished he could write another such story.

 

March 16.
A girl named Catherine Cook came to see me about a thesis she is writing on my work. She wore a maxi coat or robe or whatever, which looked like a tacky black velvet you'd get from the Goodwill.
²¹
She was pretty, quite intelligent, but overly gushy. I was just too informal for words—served her coffee in the kitchen and we sat at the kitchen table. Her father and mother (a Belgian, and even gushier on the phone than Catherine) were waiting in a car several blocks away, up towards Sloane Square; maybe they had instructions to call the police if she didn't return before nightfall. Anyhow, it made her seem helpless and coddled—which she didn't at all have the air of being. I talked volumes, chiefly about other people, and she never tried to bring me back to the subject. Perhaps she merely wanted to meet me.

Then I went to see Nick Furbank. I have met him before but I didn't in the least remember what he looked like. He is pale and he stammers. Am not sure what I feel about him. His face isn't altogether a face one trusts. I told him right away that I don't want Morgan's letters to me to go into the book he is writing. I said they were too personal and really much more about me than Morgan; but of course what I mean is that I would like to turn them into a book, myself. Nick seemed rather surprised when I said I felt we couldn't publish
Maurice
without Bob [Buckingham]'s permission. And perhaps I am being overconsiderate about this; because Bob's objections, if any, would really be May [Buckingham]'s. ( Joe Ackerley told me, during that meeting in Coventry in 1967, that May was now declaring that Bob had never known what homosexuality was until quite recently, when Morgan had told him—and Nick says she takes the same attitude now.) But Nick also says that Bob has so far raised no objections to his book, in which Nick intends to be absolutely frank about sex.

He lent me two of Morgan's later stories, the one which takes place on board ship and one I haven't read before, called “Dr. Woolacott.”
²²

Then I had supper with Bob Regester and Neil Hartley at a Greek restaurant just below the Post Office Tower. So Bob and I went up the tower, mildly drunk and daring each other, but it really isn't very giddy making—especially at night—unless you stand right up against the railings at the open section. Bob is fun to be with on such occasions but I feel I'm apt to overdo the aged schoolboy role. Also my conscience is pricking me because I haven't been working at anything but just pleasuring myself, as Don calls it. I keep thinking about him and hoping he's all right. Sometimes I wonder, is he unwilling to come back here because of [his friend]?

Last night I dreamt of being in an earthquake. Wasn't really scared.

 

March 17.
6:45 p.m., have just finishing talking to Don on the phone. This time it was much more cheerful and it seems he got a very good notice and also Irving Blum wants to take the show to San Francisco and New York. But Don wants to come back here soon, so maybe he'll join us all on this trip to the South of France for Easter.

Yesterday David and Peter and I had lunch at Marguerite [Lamkin]'s. I'm really fond of her but this lunching is ghastly. She
cannot
resist inviting lots of other people and stuffing us with food and creating an anti-oasis in the midst of the day.

Then we went to the Richard Hamilton show at the Tate and Peter and I went to
Zabriskie Point
^*
and had supper together at Odin's, and Patrick Procktor came in, fresh from India, and covered me with effusion. I didn't snub him but it was embarrassing, after the vile way he behaved to Don.

Today Clement brought the newly typed scripts around. Very few typos and I think it reads well. He
still
wants it lengthened, but I said not until we are going into rehearsal. The play is now being sent to Alec Guinness and to Donald McWhinnie and Peter Gill as possible directors.

 

March 18.
Peter Gill is out of it, I just heard from Clement. He'll be working in Canada until much later.

Have been lunching with Bob Regester. Vanessa and Corin Redgrave
^†
and their daughters were there. Also Rory Cameron, whom I met at Marguerite's lunch. He's rather a nice man, writes travel books, lives on Cap Ferrat. Vanessa seemed quite ridiculously large and thick thighed and hoydenish and she sort of mother-handled the little girls, like a great big tactless nanny. We went ice skating, which I enjoyed greatly, though I thought old Drub's shaky ankles would never survive. Have been so hugely fat, lately, what with enforced drinking, bread eating and rich desserts.

David Plante really is a darling. I'd forgotten how dark-eyed and vulnerably American he is. I spent a lot of yesterday skimming at top speed through his novel, which I'd tactfully bought. And then he brought me a signed copy.
^*
We had supper together. Nikos [Stangos] didn't come, because an aunt of his has died. David said that the aunt was a wonderful woman but her death (cancer) had been long expected and he couldn't
quite
understand the tremendous upset it caused Nikos. We agreed that Mediterranean people use grief as a ritual to somehow propitiate the spirits of the dead— that there's this always in addition to what the mourner naturally feels. David is eager that we shall all get together, but I have a hunch I won't like Nikos so much, this time around. He sounds so domineering. David says of himself that he is very jealous—so much so that he never wants to do anything to make Nikos jealous of him, for fear of reprisals! Stephen [Spender], that old monster, has been urging David to marry—telling him that if you don't you miss a great experience. The boys see through him but adore him.

 

March 19.
It turns out that Rory Cameron was the driver of the car which wrecked and so severely injured Norman Prouting, years ago, on the Riviera. Like the other passengers, all rich people, he apparently neglected Norman completely while he was going through the subsequent operations—Norman still limps slightly— and never offered to help him with money. At least that's what I infer, because of Norman's reaction when I mentioned Rory's name to him last night; he froze up solid.

We went together to see [Shaw's]
The Apple Cart
. John Neville was really excellent as King Magnus. He
could
play Patrick, but his face is wrong, there's a dryness in it, hard to imagine him being physically vain.

This morning Clement told me that two other German theaters are interested in our play. The script is now with Alec Guinness and Donald McWhinnie.

I've just had lunch with Moore Crosthwaite, at his house near Clapham Common. He has much of the style of a former British Ambassador to Stockholm and Beirut but this merely modifies what might otherwise be a too screaming queenishness; it strikes a balance and makes him human. He's got an American friend living in the house and old Herbert List staying there for a few days. Herbert, increasingly pouchy and full bellied, is keener than ever on collecting prints. Much was spoken against Warhol's films and in praise of Hockney's pictures.

Speaking of Hockney reminds me that he told me today on the phone that he had just called Don to try to persuade him to come to France with us. I don't quite see how Don can do this unless he takes off tomorrow, since he wants to use an excursion ticket and that is no good for weekends. I'll probably hear from Don himself in the morning. He had told David that he would first have to ask Irving Blum if he was needed in Los Angeles, but maybe this was an excuse. David had told Don to come and draw French food, and then show his drawings in the States to attract American gourmets to France. This is the sort of superficially silly sounding remark which actually reveals the shrewdness of David's character, because one can quite imagine him literally doing that and making money out of it. (Indeed, the other night, when I was having supper with Peter at Odin's, the proprietor Peter Langan asked me to contribute to a pornographic cookbook he is preparing, and said David has promised to illustrate it!)

 

March 20.
Talked to Don this morning. I don't think he really wants to come back here, and not particularly to come with us to France, which seems set for Monday. We had one of our best kind of conversations; everything we said, even the details about calling the Maltins
²³
to see about the second payment on the property tax, was full of love. I can truly say, with Patrick in our play, “How lucky I am!”

Last night I took Nancy [West], Joe Ackerley's sister, out to supper at The Hungry Horse, along with Nick Furbank and a quite nice young artist who knows Mark Lancaster, named Richard Shone. Nancy was very lively and seemed quite contented with her life, though she talks about Joe continually. She really is an amazingly handsome woman, for her age. Shone, who's about twenty, is a great talker and all went merrily. We even got the desirable table in an alcove. But Nancy is a demon pourer of drinks—I had the wits to resist them, but Nick Furbank turned clay pale in the restaurant, said he had to get some air and then fainted. However, this morning on the phone, he sounded all right again.