My Guru and His Disciple Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Three Years Later

  Books by Christopher Isherwood

  Copyright

  To Don Bachardy

  This is neither a complete biography of Swami Prabhavananda nor a full account of my own life between 1939 and 1976. It is my one-sided, highly subjective story of our guru-disciple relationship. Many people who were closely associated with Prabhavananda or with me, during that period, have little or no part in this particular story and therefore appear in it only briefly or not at all.

  C.I. June 1979

  One

  Toward the end of January 1939, Wystan Auden and I arrived in New York, by boat from England. I have described the events and decisions which led to this journey in my book Christopher and His Kind. It was our second visit to New York; we had spent a few days there in the summer of 1938, on our way home to England from China. Now, although our plans weren’t definite, it seemed that we might be staying for a long time, perhaps permanently.

  Our first visit had been a tourist visit, uniquely magic. As far as I was concerned, it could never be duplicated. The tension of New York life had been thrilling when it had had a time limit; now it quickly began to demoralize me. Less than two months after our arrival, I wrote in my diary:

  This has been a bad sterile period for me. I’ve done practically nothing. Every day I think: Now I must get busy, now I must start work. But at what? My money is rapidly running out. Wystan has the prospect of a lecturing job, later on. My whole instinct is against lecturing or exploiting my reputation in any way. I would like some sort of regular humble employment. I got to know Berlin because I was doing work which related me to my social environment in an anonymous unpretentious way, as a foreigner teaching his own language. I must be anonymous until I discover a new self here, an American me.

  Wystan is as energetic as I’m idle. He writes a great deal, in his best manner—poems and articles and reviews—he makes speeches, goes to parties and dinners, is brilliantly talkative. It’s as if he and I had changed roles. He’s the confident one, now. He is making himself at home here.

  So I despaired and did nothing, blaming New York for my jitters. I now realize that they weren’t caused by New York, or by my money worries, or even by the probability of war in Europe, but by an emptiness inside myself, of which I wasn’t yet fully aware.

  I was empty because I had lost my political faith—I couldn’t repeat the left-wing slogans which I had been repeating throughout the last few years. It wasn’t that I had lost all belief in what the slogans stood for, but I was no longer wholehearted. My leftism was confused by an increasingly aggressive awareness of myself as a homosexual and by a newly made discovery that I was a pacifist. Both these individualistic minority-attitudes kept bringing me into conflict with leftist majority-ideology.

  I called myself a pacifist because Heinz, the German boy I had lived with for five years during the nineteen-thirties, was about to be conscripted into the Nazi army and I found it unthinkable that I should ever help to cause his death, however indirectly. I had therefore decided to refuse to take any part in the war effort, if war came. But this was a merely negative decision. What I now needed to learn were positive pacifist values, a pacifist way of life, a Yes to fortify my No; it was the lack of values which was making me feel so insecure. The strength Wystan showed in contrast to my weakness was based on the Christian values which he had learned from his mother, as a child, and which he had never entirely abandoned. He didn’t discuss these with me at that time, knowing what a violent prejudice I had against the whole concept of religion as I then understood it.

  * * *

  Pacifism was the basis of a friendship I now made with John van Druten. John was easy and witty and charming, very much a man of the theater, but he was also a moralist, anxious to impose ethical standards on his life and on his plays, even when they were the lightest of comedies. After careful discussion, we made up a list of questions concerning the role of the pacifist in wartime and sent it to three prominent pacifists, George Lansbury, Rudolph Messel, and Runham Brown. All of them took the trouble to answer us.

  Messel was the most radical of the three. He wanted the pacifist to sabotage the war machine, demanding total disarmament, unilateral if need be. He hoped the war would turn into a revolution. The Nazi aggressor must be allowed to invade the country without opposition. A bloodless victory, Messel added, would be no advertisement for Nazism, anyway.

  Brown wrote that a pacifist should at all times try to be a useful member of society. In wartime he should work harder than ever, on some kind of social-relief project which was independent of government control and unrelated to the war effort. He should practice civil disobedience to the aggressor, no matter what the consequences.

  Lansbury’s letter agreed substantially with Brown’s. Its tone touched John and me deeply; you could almost hear the voice of this gentle, fearlessly honest eighty-year-old warrior for peace: “You, like many others, find it extremely difficult to realise your idealism in the midst of the kind of world in which we are living. All the same, comrade, whatever was true yesterday, is true today. If you, and millions of other young men of all nationalities are once more thrown into this hell of war, nothing will come out of it but more and more confusion. Our way of passive resistance has never yet been tried out, but war has been tried through all the centuries and has absolutely failed.”

  The dedication and courage of these three men was inspiring, but they couldn’t help me much in my present condition. They were in England, preparing to play their part in the expected war crisis. Even if I were to go back there, I shouldn’t be able to discuss my personal problems with them; they would be far too busy. They might give me work to do, but I wasn’t yet sufficiently sure of myself to become their follower. I needed a lot more time to think, and someone to help me clarify my thoughts.

  So Gerald Heard was increasingly in my mind. He and his friend Chris Wood had emigrated to Los Angeles in 1937, together with Aldous Huxley and his wife, Maria. I had seen a good deal of Gerald and Chris while they were still living in London, and I already knew Gerald well enough to feel sure he would be understanding. The Huxleys I had never met. I was eager to talk to Aldous, whose Ends and Means, published two years earlier, was regarded as a basic book for pacifists.

  I knew, from somewhat vague gossip, that Heard and Huxley had become involved in the cult of Yoga, or Hinduism, or Vedanta—I was still contemptuously unwilling to bother to find out exactly what these terms meant. To me, all this Oriental stuff was distasteful in the extreme. However, my distaste was quite different from the distaste I felt for the Christians. The Christians I saw as sour life-haters and sex
-forbidders, hypocritically denying their rabid secret lusts. The Hindus I saw as stridently emotional mysterymongers whose mumbo jumbo was ridiculous rather than sinister. That Heard and Huxley could have been impressed by such nonsense was regrettable. I explained their lapse by saying to myself that it was typical of these hyperintellectuals to get caught unawares from time to time and led astray by their emotions. But surely such a lapse could be only temporary? I intended to avoid discussing the subject with them, as tactfully as I could. After all, it was their intellects that I needed to consult.

  So I now began corresponding with Gerald. To my surprise and relief, he wrote nothing about Yoga—indeed, his tone was reassuringly practical. His thinking seemed to be chiefly in terms of group formation. Pacifists must be organized into groups which were small enough to be cohesive, every member accepting total responsibility for every other. Order and creative accuracy must be opposed to disorder and destruction. We must create a doctorate of psychologically sound, well-equipped healers … Gerald’s phraseology wasn’t always clear to me but it sounded authoritative; he seemed to know what he was up to. The idea of belonging to a like-minded group appealed to me strongly. Since my decision to be a pacifist, I had felt isolated, fearing that many of my friends must disapprove.

  When I first wrote to Gerald, I didn’t suggest coming to California, but he himself urged me to, in his reply to my letter. From then on, I took it for granted that I would come, sooner or later. Quite aside from wanting to talk to Gerald and Huxley, and to get away from New York, I had always had a romantic longing to visit the Far West. Now that this journey was actually in prospect, I realized that I needed to share it with an American, so as to see the country through his native eyes as well as my foreign ones. Luckily for me, there was a young American ready to be my fellow traveler. I will call him Vernon.

  Vernon and I had met and become lovers during my first stay in New York. After I went back to England we had written to each other, and when I returned in January, he was waiting on the dock to meet me. To begin with, we had taken a room together in the same hotel as Wystan. Later, when Wystan and I rented an apartment, Vernon had moved in with us.

  * * *

  He and I left New York on May 6, by bus. Bus travel was cheap in those days, so we could afford to make a big detour to the South, by way of Memphis, New Orleans, Houston, and El Paso; we also stopped off to see the Grand Canyon. It was almost two weeks before we reached Los Angeles.

  I had felt sad to be leaving Wystan behind, but nothing would have induced him to come with us; he was busy and happy in New York. Of course we assured each other that our parting would be only temporary, and indeed Wystan did come out to California briefly, later that year—and hated it. We were together many times during the remaining thirty-odd years of Wystan’s life. But our relationship was altered, not because the strength of our love had grown less, but because we no longer had to rely on each other. When we had sailed from England that January, leaving behind us nearly everyone we knew, our futures seemed interlocked for good or ill; we were a mated, isolated couple. America was to have been our joint adventure. But it was America which, literally, came between us.

  * * *

  Chris Wood, when I met him again in Los Angeles, appeared to be no different from the London Chris I had known, except that he was sunburned. But Gerald was certainly changed. The London Gerald had been a characteristically clean-shaven type. The Los Angeles Gerald wore a beard. True, this beard had a reason for its existence; he had grown it because he couldn’t shave while lying in bed with a broken arm—the result of a fall in the snow in Iowa during a lecture tour with Huxley. But that had happened at the end of 1937, and the beard was still there; indeed, it showed signs of careful grooming and was trimmed to a point. It gave his face an upward, heaven-seeking thrust which was disconcertingly Christlike. And whereas the London Gerald had been neatly and even elegantly dressed, the Los Angeles Gerald wore jackets with ragged cuffs and jeans which had holes or patches in the knees. The London Gerald had struck me as being temperamentally agnostic, with a dry wit and a primly skeptical smile. The Los Angeles Gerald was witty, too, but he had the quick eager speech and the decisive gestures of a believer.

  A believer in what? That remained for me to discover, and the discovery was a gradual process. Gerald was a master of the oblique. If I asked him a direct question, I got an answer which rambled like a river over a vast area of knowledge, carrying me past the shores of prehistory, anthropology, astronomy, physics, parapsychology, mythology, and much much more. The glimpses he allowed me of these shores were tantalizing and I would beg him to extend them, forgetting or not caring what my original question had been.

  Gerald simply wasn’t the sort of person one could come to and say, “Please summarize your views, so I can decide if I agree with them.” Nor could I carry out my intention of accepting Gerald’s pacifism while rejecting his religious beliefs. I’d begun to realize that the two were completely interdependent.

  And, anyhow, Gerald subtly but absolutely refused to be rejected. If I disagreed with a statement of his—or with his use of certain words—he dismissed my disagreement by implying that it was merely semantic. He was so sure of himself that he could afford to apologize to me. He was sorry, he said; he had expressed himself clumsily. He should have stated his case in apter words—to me, especially, whose skill with them so far exceeded his own. He hadn’t forgotten how to flatter.

  Despite his vast learning, he treated me as an equal. He had an air of conferring with me, never of teaching me. “You remember, of course, that odd book of Smith’s on the customs of the Micronesians?” would be a typical opening of one of his expositions. During our first weeks together, I would keep telling him that I’d never read Smith, or Jones, or Robinson, or Brown, as the case might be. Later I learned to let such rhetorical questions go by without comment. They were rhetorical because Gerald always told you, anyway, what Smith had said that was relevant to the subject being discussed. In the same manner, he would declare that “I should like your opinion on Smith’s theory” and then proceed to inform me what his opinion was, and hence mine—since disagreement between us wasn’t possible, according to his rules of intercourse.

  I was anxious to hear more about the pacifist groups which he had written of in his letters. What kind of preparation did he think would be necessary for the members? Paramedical training? A study of Gandhi’s tactics of non-violence? No, Gerald didn’t show any interest when I mentioned either of these. All he would discuss was a form of self-preparation at what he called “the deep level.” To become a true pacifist, you had to find peace within yourself; only then, he said, could you function pacifistically in the outside world.

  Gerald had already started his own drastic program of self-preparation; every day he sat for three two-hour periods of meditation—in the early morning, around noon, and in the early evening. During these six hours he was engaged, as far as I could gather, in somehow fixing his thoughts upon what he called “this thing”—“this thing” being the source of inner peace which he was trying to contact. I think it was Gerald’s natural fastidiousness which prevented him from calling it “God”—to say that he was looking for God would have sounded pretentious, ungentlemanly. Perhaps, also, he guessed that I would have a prejudice against the word. If he did, he was right. I loathed it.

  My interpretation of the word “God” had been taken quite simplemindedly from left-wing anti-religious propaganda. God has no existence except as a symbol of the capitalist superboss. He has been deified by the capitalists so that he can rule from on high in the sky over the working-class masses, doping them with the opium of the people, which is religion, and thus making them content with their long working hours and starvation wages.

  I soon had to admit, however, that Gerald’s “this thing”—leaving aside the question of its existence or non-existence—was the very opposite of my “God.” True, it was by definition everywhere, and therefore also up in the sky
, but it was to be looked for first inside yourself. It wasn’t to be thought of as a Boss to be obeyed but as a Nature to be known—an extension of your own nature, with which you could become consciously united. The Sanskrit word yoga, ancestor of the English word “yoke,” means union, and hence the process of achieving union with this eternal omnipresent Nature, of which everybody and everything is a part.

  During the past few years, I had kept declaring that I knew religion was a lie, because I knew that I hadn’t got an eternal soul. Now, after talking to Gerald, it became obvious to me that I had been misusing the word “soul” to mean my ego-personality. I had merely been saying (quite correctly) that my ego-personality, Christopher, was subject to change, like my body, and therefore couldn’t be eternal. If I did have a soul, it could only be “this thing,” seen in relation to Christopher. I might call it “mine” for convenience when thinking about it, but I must remind myself that Christopher could never possess it. If the two were ever to become united, Christopher would cease to exist as an individual. He would be merged in “this thing”; not vice versa.

  The question remained: Why should I believe in “this thing” at all?

  Among the various areas of knowledge that Gerald was opening up to me was the history of mysticism. For the first time, I was learning that there had been thousands of men and women, in many different countries and cultures throughout recorded history, who had claimed to have experienced union with what is eternal within oneself. That their accounts of this experience were essentially similar was certainly impressive, but it didn’t prove anything, as far as I was concerned. Even when these people belonged to the modern world, they seemed utterly remote from me. Mightn’t they all have been self-deluded, however sincere?

  Gerald countered my objections with a compliment. My attitude showed, he said, that I was approaching the problem in exactly the right spirit. Credulity was the greatest obstacle to spiritual progress; blind faith was just blindness. He quoted Tennyson’s line about “honest doubt” and told me that Ramakrishna (whoever that was) had urged his disciples to keep testing him, as a moneychanger rings coins to hear if they are false. It was no use just passively accepting the dogmas of the Church or the words of the Scriptures: I knew, of course, what Vivekananda (whoever that was) had said: “Every man in Christian countries has a huge cathedral on his head and on top of that a book.” No—the only way to begin the search for “this thing” was to say to oneself: “I’ll keep an open mind and I’ll try to follow the instructions in meditation which my teacher gives me. If, after six months of honest effort, I’ve had absolutely no results, then I’ll drop it and tell everybody that it’s a sham.”

 
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