Immediately there is expansion, playfulness, stimulation. Without him a whole range of my life and self dies. He is truly the Sun, my sun. Gonzalo is the Moon, my own tormented moon, driven by fears and emotion and madness. Henry is full of passion for me, full of desire and tenderness. Again a wealth of talk, ideas, and collaboration blooms. Gonzalo’s world is small and personal, like a woman’s, a child’s world.
I came home from dinner with Henry to write these words, and in half an hour I go to Gonzalo.
THE COLLECTOR
I suggested we feed him the diary
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 30, 1940
Again I opened up to Henry—he had to woo me again. We lay in bed in his hotel room, and talked about my idea which is bearing fruit—that while Henry could no longer write erotica for the old millionaire, I could give him copies of the diary in exchange for money for Henry’s trip. Virginia copied diary 32, I revised it, changed the names, but while doing it I relived intensely my new love for Henry. Is it the power of the diary? My love seemed intact. I felt awe, as for a magical event.
And here I am with Henry, who is still fragile, lean and ageless, merely a little too tired for big nights, a little harassed by invitations and people’s dependence on him. The first volume of his life with June is on his desk. I cannot read it; I have not the courage. It is Pandora’s box. I close my eyes and yield to Henry’s desire. He makes me lie over him. We again find the sensual frenzy, the same violence, followed by peace and tenderness.
Faced with Henry’s dependence again, I suggested we show the diary to Barnette Ruder, the collector of rare books. This is a strange story—he is a Jew who looks like Rank. I have never seen him, only a snapshot of him. When Henry came to New York, Ruder liked him and often invited him to dinner, gave him presents and a little money now and then. At the same time, he talked about himself. His life was a failure, he was alone and could never win a woman for himself. He was always reading and hankering for life, and wanted Henry’s guidance. Henry took him out, but Ruder didn’t want to pay for his women. One day he told Henry that he had a client who was an elderly man, very rich, who had no sensual life at all, who was interested in Henry’s writing, especially the sexual element, and thought it might have a miraculous effect on his own paralyzed life. He was willing to pay Henry one hundred dollars a month to write one hundred pages or so especially for him, mostly on sex. And then, almost like in Dante’s Inferno, Henry was condemned to write about sex. At first it seemed easy, but it became unnatural and forced, and finally it was hard labor. He did this for a few months. Ruder said that he did not even read the pages, that he immediately sent them to the old millionaire down south. When Henry got the contract from Doubleday for the book on America (The Air-Conditioned Nightmare), he dropped the writing for Ruder. I suggested we feed him the diary as I have no money for Henry’s traveling expenses. Ruder assented but will make no decision until he reads it. Monday I turn over volume 32, beginning with my love for Henry and June. Not without mischievous intentions, I pasted one of my most becoming Louveciennes photographs on the inside of the cover. Now I wait.
At the moment my love for Henry is strong, but I do not seek to hold him near because my love for Gonzalo is more violent, more emotional, and I live in constant, anguished fear of discovery.
John is going home. I do not feel him, hear him, or see him.
DECEMBER 1, 1940
Henry for the first time is experiencing being used, being asked to help Patchen, being begged to solve others’ problems. He is amazed by the spreading of needs—when you help one, five more appear. For the first time I found Henry depressed because he has awakened suddenly to the needs of others and is overwhelmed. I said, “I have lived with this knowledge since I was a child.” “I couldn’t bear it,” Henry said.
On the very day Hugh gets paid, all he gives me for food, the house, and myself, is given away (half to Henry, half to Gonzalo—the half I give to Gonzalo Hugh knows about, but not the two hundred a month I give to Henry). The second day my pocket is empty, and then begin the antics which wear me out emotionally. I have to cheat, lie, intrigue, borrow, steal the rest of the time. Finally, a few days before the next allowance, I have to confess to Hugh: “I’m broke.” Hugh scolds me. Sometimes he notices I pay with checks for things I said I would pay with cash given to me. I never can tell him when I get paid for my writing. Dorothy Norman’s check for the Elena story went to Henry. It is as wearing as Henry’s old way of living when he had nothing (getting himself invited to dinner, borrowing and stealing). It keeps me on edge. I never buy anything for myself. I have to expect Hugh’s revolts and take his scolding as if I were extravagant. When he relents and forgives me, I feel even worse. I feel I am harassing him. That is why I was able to rebel against John.
DECEMBER 13, 1940
Revising diaries from 32 to 38, overwhelmed by the reading. Such consuming pages, such ecstasies, such fever, expansion, dilation, joy, drunkenness. The love for Henry looms immense and deep. At moments I feel that it is the first time that a woman has opened herself up. I had forgotten. Will it warm others as it warms me, consume them as it consumes me? Where am I now? In human life, not so drunk, and not so open. I have locked my door.
Henry’s “Essay on Balzac” appears in Twice a Year with my story of Elena.
I am sad. The world is heavy without the dream.
DECEMBER 14, 1940
Telegram from Ruder: “Very much impressed (diary 32), have forwarded my client making clear that he is under obligation to pay for this installment. I think he will be interested in others provided the material is similar. What do I do now?”
Got one hundred dollars from Ruder when I was borrowing from Millicent, the maid, with four days until Hugo’s payday. I got one hundred dollars when Gonzalo needs money for his teeth, Helba needs a mirror to work with, Hugo needs material for his engraving. There are no promises of more—Ruder does not know what his client will say. The client is interested only in the erotic passages. I was highly excited, happy, dancing around.
The joy I have in giving money away, oh, the joy, the joy. Why can I never have enough of my own money so that I should not feel guilty about giving, why?
DECEMBER 15, 1940
I have amorous dreams about Henry after rereading the old diaries. No sense of pain. Joy only.
Sometimes Gonzalo and I watch our neighbors undress across the way in another house. Gonzalo has seen them make love. I never have, but they like to walk around naked. She combs her hair, brushes her teeth. They pick up the black cat, turn out the light as they enter the bedroom. He puts his hand around her breasts. We talk about a rape we read of in the newspapers. A woman declared that a negro raped her three times, once when she was coming out of the shower, once on her bed, again in her automobile. It was untrue. She may have wanted him to.
JANUARY 4, 1941
Robert Duncan. He stands near and clear in me. At first I did not entirely hear him. He spoke through the poems. He is beautiful. He is at times in a trance, and he talks flowingly then, like a medium. I first loved Robert when we sat and talked alone, after I read his diary. We must never touch physically, but I am under his spell. After he leaves I want to run after him and say: “I love you,” but this assertion is annihilated because the possession takes place mystically and more swiftly than words.
Robert as a woman—his great charm, the seduction of his eyelids, nose, ears, hands—I let Eduardo court him for me, make love to him. Others make the motions of love, but we do not. The passage between us is free, open, profound; we are two slender Egyptian bodies in a posture of dance, immobilized