Christopher’s reasonableness, the justice of his case, the modera-tion of his demands upon Caskey were a bit too convincing––and he knew it. Relations between two human beings who are supposed to love each other––and perhaps actually do, from time to time––
cannot be regulated by a code of rules. The truth is that Christopher was no more reasonable than Caskey; he merely had a knack of
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maneuvering himself into positions in which he was, technically, “in the right”––whereupon Caskey, with his passive obstinacy, would not only accept the counterposition of being “in the wrong” but would proceed to make the wrong as wrong as he possibly could. He always behaved worst when there was no conceivable excuse for his behavior. That was his kind of integrity.
Maybe Caskey never quite realized the dimensions of
Christopher’s arrogance––for Christopher was usually careful not to reveal them. In his inmost heart, Christopher thought of himself as an art aristocrat or brahmin, a person privileged by his talent to demand the service (he preferred to call it “the cooperation”) of others. In his youth, he had felt this even more strongly, and had often told Nanny, when she grumbled about the housework, that she ought to feel proud that she was helping him finish his novel––by taking domestic chores off his hands. (In the Soviet Union, he added, this principle was recognized––so that only artists and other leading brainworkers had servants.) Once, in an outburst of frankness, he had confided to the Beesleys––who thoroughly approved of his attitude––“What I really want is to be waited on hand and foot.”
Vernon Old (of all people!) in the innocence of his early enthusiasm for Christopher, had read Goodbye to Berlin and exclaimed, “It makes me feel I ought to drop everything and cook for you and look after you––so you can go on writing!” (This declaration brought tears to Christopher’s eyes. It still touches me––even though I now know that Vernon was describing the attitude which he would later
expect his various girfriends and wives to take toward himself. . . .
Incidentally, the journal entry of March 3 mentions that Christopher has heard “Vernon isn’t getting along at all well with Patty.”) Since his return to California, Christopher had reestablished relations with the Vedanta Center but he only went there when he felt that he absolutely had to. His guilt feelings were very strong. He hated having them and he was inclined to blame Caskey for them.
He was aware that both Huxley and Heard had made remarks about his way of life which had reached Swami’s ears, directly or indirectly.
(This was bitchy of Gerald and Aldous, to put it mildly, for neither of them had disdained to accept Christopher’s and Caskey’s hospitality.) Swami had so far said very little about this to Christopher, but Christopher felt that Swami regarded Caskey as a bad influence and that Caskey knew this and defiantly enjoyed the situation. The two seldom met and made no contact when they did. If Caskey had
been a professed or prospective Vedantist, much would have been forgiven him––but Caskey was clearly unconvertible. A lot of
Christopher’s guilt was actually embarrassment––it wasn’t that he 182
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was ashamed of his drunkenness and sex but he hated having Swami know about it. He would have preferred to lead a double life with a clear-cut division between the two halves, but he couldn’t, and Caskey was the reason why he couldn’t. Just because Caskey was so socially presentable––up to a point––and could mingle with the Huxleys, the Kiskaddens and the rest of Christopher’s respectable friends––Christopher found that his life had become all of a piece; everybody knew everything there was to know about him. In
theory, he saw that this was morally preferable; it made hypocrisy and concealment impossible. In practice, he hated it.
Caskey never suffered from embarrassment. He didn’t give a damn what anybody knew about him. He would take pains to be polite and agreeable, but he was always capable, in any company, of turning loud and nasty. As for his guilt, it was the inspiration of his religious feelings. He had the black Catholic belief that it is only when you feel guilty that you are in a state of grace. He couldn’t imagine an approach to God other than as a penitent. So it was continually necessary to do or be something he could be penitent for.
Christopher and Caskey still had poignant moments of tenderness, when their guilt became mutual. For a little while they would be drawn together by realizing how unkind they had been to each
other. Then their eyes would fill with tears. Both of them asked for forgiveness and were forgiven; yet forgiveness in itself seemed of secondary importance. They clung together with a feeling that they were two helpless victims of some external power––a power which forced them to be enemies. Caskey enjoyed these moments of
reconciliation much more than Christopher did, I suspect. Caskey’s Catholic mind and Irish heart revelled in suffering for its own sake, equating love with pain. Christopher, cooler hearted and more practical, was impatient of suffering––was shocked at himself for liking it even a little; he accused himself of masochism. He wanted to tune their whole relationship up, remove all causes of friction and get it running smoothly.
When clashing with Caskey, Christopher often thought of himself as The Foolish Virgin (Verlaine) and of Caskey as The Infernal Bridegroom (Rimbaud) in Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell. But this was self-flattery. Neither Christopher nor Caskey was wicked enough or desperate enough or daring enough to create an authentic Hell around himself. Their guilt and their suffering was miserably half-assed. Which is why––leaving aside all question of talent––it was eventually commemorated by a miserably half-assed novel, The
World in the Evening.
No––I won’t accuse Caskey. What do I really know about his
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deeper feelings? When I call Christopher half-assed, I know exactly what I mean. He had, so to speak, too many dishes on the stove and not one of them was being properly cooked. He made japam, when he remembered to. He went to see Swami, but only out of duty. He worked on the Patanjali translation, but only to placate Swami. He visited paraplegic patients at Birmingham Hospital (this began later in the year) so that he could picture himself as being engaged in social service. He wrote The Condor and the Cows compulsively and without enjoyment, claiming that he was doing it to promote Caskey’s career as a photographer––and thereby making Caskey responsible for
Christopher’s forced descent into journalism.
What a martyr he felt himself to be! How put upon! He saw
himself as a toiler, Caskey as a lounger––yet Caskey worked just as hard as Christopher when he had something to work on; it was
simply that Caskey had the natural gift of being able to relax in his work and Christopher hadn’t. Did Christopher ever relax? Yes––in the ocean, plunging his hangover headaches into the waves––
drinking, especially if Caskey wasn’t around––naked in bed with Jim Charlton or some other sex mate––but such respites were short.
Most of the time, Christopher was under tremendous strain. In the March 2 journal entry, he writes that he keeps bleeding from the rectum and thinks that this may be a strain symptom. Two months later, he believes that he may be on the verge of a nervous breakdown (May 22).
Now I must mention a feature of life at 333 East Rustic Road which seems to me to have been somehow interrelated with Christopher’s psychological condition––the unpleasant psychic atmosphere in the house. I have no way of fixing a date on which this first became apparent to Christopher and Caskey. I can only remember some