dimanche 18 mai 2008
Until now, it was widely believed that Grynszpan had intended to shoot the ambassador, Count Johannes Welczek, in protest at the SS's expulsion of his parents to Poland. But according to Professor Döscher, who teaches modern history at Osnabrück University, Grynszpan's actions were a spontaneous expression of anger over the broken promises of his lover, Vom Rath, not a political gesture. [...] Prof Döscher claims that Vom Rath was nicknamed Mrs Ambassador and Notre Dame de Paris as a result of his homosexual antics. He and Grynszpan - a "boy with a beautiful penetrative gaze" - met in Le Boeuf sur le Toit bar, a popular haunt for gay men in the autumn of 1938 and became intimate. Grynszpan, who was in his late teens [he was born March 28, 1921], had been living illegally in Paris, and Prof Döscher states that 29-year-old Vom Rath agreed to use his influential position to secure official papers for his friend.
When Vom Rath went back on his word, Grynszpan reacted by storming into the German embassy on rue de Lille 78, demanding to see him, and opening fire on him with a revolver. Grynszpan was arrested and languished in jail in France until 1940, when he was handed over to the Nazis, who planned a show trial which would be used to justify the outbreak of the second world war. A combined report from the German foreign, justice and propaganda ministries in January 1942 declared : "The purpose of the trial should be to clarify to the German people and the world that the international community of Jews is to blame for the outbreak of this war."
According to Prof Döscher, when Grynszpan learned of this motivation for the trial in the early 40s, he revealed the real truth to his Nazi captors. Fearing embarrassment and humiliation, they then stripped Vom Rath of his martyrdom and scrapped their plans. Grynszpan was sent to Sachsenhausen concentration camp and then disappeared. [...] Prof Döscher gleaned his previously unpublished evidence from court archives, reports from the propaganda ministry, letters, diary extracts, and interviews with diplomats of the time. Most startling are the diaries of Gide, in which the writer expresses his amazement that the scandal failed to gain public attention.
Vom Rath, Gide wrote (a), "had an exceptionally intimate relationship with the little Jew, his murderer". Referring to the fact that Vom Rath was both gay and had an affair with a Jew, Gide later said: "The thought that a such highly-thought of representative of the Third Reich sinned twice according to the laws of his country is rather amusing." But that was not what amazed him most. "How is it that the press failed to bring this scandal into the open?" he asked."
(a) « On saurait de source certaine que l'attaché d'ambassade [Vom] Rath qui vient d'être assassiné avait les relations les plus intimes avec son petit Juif d'assassin. De quelle nature fut l'assassinat? Il n'importe. L'idée qu'un représentant du Reich, qui vient d'être glorifié, péchait doublement au regard des lois de son pays, est assez drôle, et les représailles atroces n'en paraissent que plus monstrueuses, plus simplement intéressées, utilitaires. Comment ce scandale n'est-il pas exploité par la presse ? »
source : http://www.guardian.co.uk/Archive/Article/0,4273,4288453,00.html
mercredi 14 mai 2008
Plusieurs autres (jeunes) hommes sont passés par la petite chambre de l'Hôtel Bristol où il avait ses habitudes et ont été des invités de choix dans son chalet de Zakopane : le comédien Witold Conti (1908-1944), jeune premier par excellence du cinéma polonais des années 1930, le compositeur Zygmunt Mycielski (1907-1987) ou le musicographe Tadeusz Żakiej (1915-1994), etc.
Parmi les liaisons qu'on lui connaît (ou du moins qu'on lui prête), il en est une qui dure plusieurs années et revêt pour lui une importance certaine : Aleksander Szymielewicz apparaît en effet sur plusieurs clichés en compagnie de son amant et mentor. Devenu médecin, Szymielewicz disparaîtra tragiquement lors du soulèvement de Varsovie en août 1944.
http://members.lycos.co.uk/szymanowski/ (pour les photographies)
dimanche 27 avril 2008
Il fonde la revue Le Coq rouge avec notamment Emile Verhaeren et Maurice Maeterlinck. Dans les années 1890, quand le mouvement s'inverse, Eelkhoud devient le correspondant belge du Mercure de France. Il y publie en outre des nouvelles et y fait paraître en feuilleton, le plus connu de ses romans, Escal-Vigor.
Pendant ces années-là, le mouvement anarchiste, bien implanté en Belgique, recueille toute sa sympathie. Ses nouvelles comme ses romans sont marqués par ses prises de position politico-sociales, mais aussi par ce que Jean Lorrain appellera son "anarchisme érotique".
Georges Eekhoud est homosexuel, les rudes Campinois, aux culottes de velours qui animent les rues de Bruxelles en chantier, suscitent chez lui des désirs que la société réprouve. Mais que lui importe : sa fin de siècle est éclairée par un amour violent et tendre pour un jeune ouvrier typographe. "Nous sommes des dieux", lui écrit-il, et les dieux se croient invulnérables !
Escal-Vigor [raconte les amours d'un aristocrate esthète et d'un jeune pâtre sur une île du nord, en but à la haine des villageois qui assassinent les deux hommes, scellant ainsi leur destin et leur union dans la mort]. A cause de ce roman, Eekhoud comparaît en 1900 devant la Cour d'Assise de Bruges pour atteinte aux bonnes moeurs. Il échappe de justesse à la condamnation. Le procès accroît la notoriété de l'auteur en France, où un assez grand nombre d'écrivains le soutiennent au nom de la liberté de l'art, mais surtout en Allemagne, où viennent de naître les premiers mouvements homosexuels de l'histoire.
A partir de ce moment-là, Eekhoud est clairement boudé par les bourgeois puissants dont dépendant les subventions qui permettent de vivre et d'écrire quand on n'a pas de fortune personnelle.
Et pourtant Eekhoud ne plie pas l'échine : en 1904, il publie Voyous de velours, le plus explicite et le plus jubilant de ses romans. L'homosexuel de Bruxelles, dans ces années-là, doit obligatoirement être triste : tout sera fait pour qu'Eekhoud le devienne. La première guerre mondiale et les années qui la suivront seront pour lui un long calvaire. Eekhoud, qui n'a pas caché ses sympathies pour les premières revendications flamandes et qui est atterré par les horreurs commises pendant cette guerre par les "nôtres" et les autres, devient la cible des bourgeois francophones triomphants de 1918. Malgré un tardif retour en grâce, il meurt en 1927, aigri et triste." (Lucien Mirande, dans son introduction à Hugo Claus : Escal-Vigor, scénario d’après le roman éponyme de Georges Eekhoud).
"Pour saisir en leur vie profonde les protagonistes de [ses romans ou nouvelles], il faut bien se pénétrer de l'histoire des provinces belges et spécialement du passé de la Campine. Terre pauvre et tragique, [...] loque rêche et grise des landes stériles, le sablon morne et pâle où poussent des plantes en paquet de ficelle et des arbres en bois de cercueil. Les villages rares, les indigènes violents et naïfs, les mœurs lointaines et touchantes et par dessus tout un vent de fanatisme.
[...] C'est au fond de ce pays que se retranchent les résistances les plus âpres aux illusions modernes de faux progrès et à l'embrigadement universel vers l'idéal bourgeois. Là bas, se lèvent encore des rustres massifs, des types de volonté immesurable, des ardents incompressibles, des soucieux de haine profonde, des marcheurs hors de tout rang, des endurcis de liberté fauve, des farouches d'eux-mêmes et des autres, des taciturnes couvant la révolte, sortes d'anarchistes des campagnes, hors la loi depuis des années et qui rôdent [...]. Aucun de leurs vices n'est tu. Une vie fourmillante, criante de réalité, crue d'audace se manifeste ; elle empêche l'étude de s'empanacher d'exagération feuilletonesque ; elle se burine sur un fond d'eau-forte, violemment, encre et craie.
[...] Si Georges Eekhoud est parvenu à réaliser ces durables poèmes de violence et de sang, c'est qu'il a fait route vers eux entre sa pitié et sa tendresse. Il a aimé dans les gars d'abord la rusticité et l'intransigeance, la primitivité et la foi, le silence et le courage, l'âpreté et la colère. Puis leurs passions naïves et sincères, leurs misères tragiques, leur bonté souterraine, leur honneur spécial. Enfin la conquête s'est faite tout entière. Il les a trouvés aussi beaux, plus beaux, peut-être, criminels qu'innocents, exaltés que calmes, vaguant que sédentaires, traqués que paisibles. Et jamais il ne les a mieux honorés de sa force et de son prestige de poète. Peut-être aussi les évidentes fraternités qui lient les écrivains d'aujourd'hui aux irréguliers l'ont-elles soutenu au point que, vengeant ceux-ci des mépris, les dressant haut devant l'admiration et l'inquiétude, il a d'un même coup magnifié ceux-là." (Emile Verhaeren, in L'Art Moderne, 18 septembre 1892)
pour lire l'intégralité d'Escal-Vigor : http://www.inlibroveritas.net/lire/oeuvre9645.html
une excellente étude sur Escal-Vigor : http://raforum.info/these/spip.php?article76
une autre excellente étude du spécialiste de Georges Eekhoud : http://semgai.free.fr/contenu/textes/mL_Eekhoud_regional.html
vendredi 21 mars 2008
It had been a long and tough road for the 27-year-old actor, who was born Ramon Samaniego in Durango, Mexico, in 1899. He came from a cultivated family (his father was a successful dentist), but the 1910 Mexican Revolution caused the family to flee to the U.S., where they lived in poverty for the following decade.
Ramon worked at a number of menial jobs to help his family, and to support himself. He moved to New York, working as a singing waiter, and as an usher in a movie house. He was ''spotted'' by an agent and offered a short-term contract.
There seems to be some dispute as to when he began appearing in movies, because many silent motion pictures of that time no longer exist, and bit players were a dime a dozen. Novarro's first film appearance was most likely in The Woman God Forgot in 1917, according to his biographer Andre Soares. So, before The Little American in 1918, with Wallace Beery and Mary Pickford. His breakthrough film, however, was The Prisoner of Zenda, co-starring with Alice Terry, the wife of Rex Ingram, the director. Ingram suggested that Ramon change his last name to Novarro. Ingram then directed Novarro in a series of films, including 1922's Scaramouche also featuring Alice Terry.
There are some who refer to Novarro as a new Valentino, because of the latin lover phase Hollywood went through, but Novarro was more than that. He had a fine singing voice, which made him one of the few stars of the silent film era to seamlessly make the transition to sound. However, Valentino was one of Novarro's closest friends. At MGM, Novarro's salary reached $10,000 a week – a fabulous sum in the 1920s – which allowed him to invest in real estate. His first ''talking'' picture was MGM's Devil May Care in 1929.
In later years Novarro had little good to say about the talking pictures he starred in. When he was interviewed by DeWitt Bodeen, for Films in Review, in the late 1960s, he said : "With the exception of The Pagan, in which I only sing... and some of Song of India, and a good part of Feyder's Daybreak – certainly not the ending however – I didn't like any of the talkies in which I starred.'' He didn't even mention 1932's Mata Hari, in which he co-starred with Greta Garbo. Novarro seemed to be refreshingly free of the egotism that is so rampant in the film industry.
In 1923, Louella Parsons, the most powerful gossip columnist in Hollywood, wrote of Novarro, in the New York Morning Telegraph: "And come to think of it, why shouldn't Ramon be an optimist. At 23 he is earning a salary of $1,250 a week, with the possibility of increasing to $4,000 and $5,000 next year. Coming from Durango, Mexico, he entered a stock company in San Francisco and played small parts. Among other things he did the Italian doctor in Enter Madame. He learned every part in every play with an avidity that brought him the admiration of his teacher and fellow pupils. Betty Blythe tells of studying in the same class with the young Novarro and of seeing him in one day play three different parts in the same production, doing each one with equal skill.
Rex Ingram came upon Novarro and cast him as Rupert of Hentzau in The Prisoner of Zenda. The boy before he met Mr. Ingram had been struggling under the handicap of a name like Samanegas [sic]. Mr. Ingram rechristened him, helped him and gave him the chance that was later going to get him many offers from film companies. And young Novarro isn't going to bite the hand that fed him. Not Ramon ; if Mr. Ingram wanted his last cent he could have it. "Rex Ingram is a wonderful director," said Ramon in a voice that should be worth his fortune if Spanish accents are being used this year. And it's real, too. If any one doesn't think Rex Ingram is a great man, Ramon is ready to fight with him. We agreed with Ramon on the Ingram question, and so we were rewarded with a smile.
Another hero to young Novarro is Marcus Loew.
''You had many offers,'' we asked him, ''to make pictures?''
''Yes, many, but I would not leave Mr. Loew. Do you think I would be so ungrateful?''
We looked about for smelling salts after this noble declaration ; it was so unusual. The average motion picture male star who has reached the top in a few bounds usually spends his time telling the interviewer what a bum his director is and how little he knows and what a raw deal he got with his company, but Ramon isn't following the usual prescribed path. He is grateful and he doesn't care who knows it.''
After starring in a number of musicals for MGM (a staple of that studio), and being badly miscast in a series of films, Novarro decided to get out. Over the following years he appeared on the stage, sang, directed several films – and tended to his investments. He made a brief return to movies – unsuccessfully, and appeared on television a number of times. He told Dewitt Bodeen he was writing an autobiography, but that it might not be possible to publish it until after his death. He said in that interview that, in the 1920s, many stars were allowed their privacy – that the details of their personal lives were not published unless they sought it.
There were many in 1920s Hollywood who knew Novarro was homosexual, but he was widely considered a gentleman, a class act that kept his private life private – until October 30, 1968.
On that date the 69-year-old Novarro took two street hustlers, brothers Paul and Tom Ferguson, to his Laurel Canyon home. Apparently he'd been seeing 22-year-old Paul for several weeks, and 17-year-old Tom had shown up in town.
The gentle Novarro would undergo terrible tortures in the next few hours, because Paul Ferguson believed the aging actor had thousands of dollars hidden away in his house. As the torture was underway, young Tom used a telephone in a different room to call a girlfriend in Chicago. He told her they were at Navarro's home, and that Paul was trying to find out where some money was. That phone conversation went on for more than 40 minutes. At one point Tom put the phone down, saying he'd better check on Paul to make sure he wasn't hurting Ramon, and the girl on the other end could hear screams in the background.
When Novarro's body was found next morning, hundreds of pictures had been ripped from the walls, in a desperate search by the Fergusons to find the fabled money – which didn't exist. On a hunch, the L.A.P.D. checked the phone logs for Novarro's home phone, and discovered a call to Chicago the previous evening. When they called that number, they talked to the young girl and she told them everything.
After their arrest, Paul Ferguson convinced his younger brother to confess to the crime, on the theory that, as a juvenile, Tom would only face a year or so in jail, whereas Paul would be facing the gas chamber. So Tom Ferguson confessed to the murder. Then the prosecutor moved to have Tom Ferguson tried as an adult – rather than as a juvenile. When the court granted that motion, Tom Ferguson immediately recanted his confession. During their joint trial, each Ferguson maintained that the other had tortured and killed Ramon Novarro.
Paul Ferguson’s defense attorney, Cletus Hanifin, in reference to Novarro’s numerous drunken driving episodes — which had begun at least as early as the 1940s — blamed the victim for his brutal death. "For forty years," Hanifin told the jury, "Novarro had been an accident walking around looking for a place to happen."
Tom’s defense attorney, Richard Walton, also placed the blame on Novarro. "Back in the days of Valentino, this man who set female hearts aflutter, was nothing but a queer. There’s no way of calculating how many felonies this man committed over the years, for all his piety." The Mexican-born Novarro was an ardent Catholic; Walton was also referring to the fact that Tom was a minor when he was invited to Novarro’s home and that homosexual acts were illegal in California at that time.
District attorney James Ideman blamed the Fergusons, accusing them of killing, beating, and torturing Novarro in order to find out the whereabouts of $5,000 the actor supposedly kept in his music room. There was no money; the music room had cost $5,000.
Paul Ferguson blamed his Catholic background. "When [Novarro] kissed me, I reacted like a Catholic, what they call homosexual panic. Some old guy in the desert says, ‘Kill homosexuals.’ It’s inbred... I was too drunk to be civilized. Whatever my most primitive moral standings were, I reacted. It had nothing to do with Novarro, nothing to do with his being homosexual. It all had to do with how I saw myself. And the fact that my brother was there. And that he could see me in that homosexual act. It all had to do with my Catholic upbringing, with my five thousand years of Moses. And that’s the only reason why this whole thing happened. Because that’s what society teaches you... I think after I hit Mr. Novarro... I turned around and sat down on the sofa. I got up and went to find [Novarro] in the bedroom. ‘This guy’s dead.’... We didn’t go there to rob him" (from Andre Soares' Beyond Paradise : The Life of Ramon Novarro - highly recommended).
Each Ferguson was sentenced to life imprisonment – even though the authorities had discounted young Tom's confession. Not much is known of what became of Tom Ferguson. He appears to have gotten out of prison and blended into the American woodwork. If he was, as he claimed, innocent of the murder of Novarro, then he didn't have to change all that much in order to go straight when he got out.
mercredi 12 mars 2008
He had a long relationship with his manservant Alexei Sofronov, "Alyosha" (1859-1925) who was his valet from 1872 to the end of his life. But he also had strong [...] attachments to younger men: Vladimir Shilovsky (1852-1893), a wealthy young lad whom he also met at the Moscow Conservatory, during 1868-1872, and who financed several trips for the two of them ; his pupil Eduard Zak (1854-1873) [who committed suicide and] inspired the Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture ; the young pianist Vassily Sapelnikov (1867-1941) who went with him on a tour to Germany, France and England...
The violinist Yosif Kotek (1855-1885) inspired the lyrical Violin Concerto. In a previously censored letter to his brother Modest, Tchaikovsky describes his feelings for the 22- year-old violinist in the mid-1870s : "I have known him for six years already and have several times fallen in love with him a little. . . However, I am far from wanting physical relations. . . It was a ravishing moonlit night. I hired a troika and we flew. . . He was feeling the cold in the end of his nose. With my bare hand I held up the collar of his coat to warm this nose that was sacred to me. The freezing of my hand gave me pain along with the sweetest consciousness that I was suffering for him. We spoke about the concerto. . . and he repeated he'd get angry if I didn't write it." When you know the feelings behind the concerto, I think you hear it in a new light. He frequently had affairs with members of the lower classes, and also used male prostitutes, particularly abroad. Many [...] are recorded in his cryptographic diary ; e.g. on March 22, 1889 he records that a ‘Negro came in to me’, to his hotel room in Paris.
Even more telling is a series of letters to Modest describing Tchaikovsky's involvement, that lasted for a couple years (1879-1880), with a young male hustler in Paris whom he calls "Louise" (several relevant passages still remain unpublished). The use of this name prompted some earlier scholars, who were given access to parts of this correspondence, to believe that they describe an authentic heterosexual encounter. Read, however, as a whole, these texts make abundantly clear that the object of Tchaikovsky's desire was indeed a young man. [...] Some of the letters make even an inadvertently comic impression, when the composer alternates masculine and feminine pronouns on the same page. An additional reason for this cross-gender conceit must have been concern with Imperial censorship as at the time many letters sent to Russia from abroad were randomly examined by the police.
There is no reason to believe that at early stage Tchaikovsky thought his preference for men as anything fateful or unavoidable : rather, he considered it temporary and subject to change when the need comes. In this he was mistaken : his life's record makes it clear that Tchaikovsky's homosexuality was exclusive, which is unequivocally confirmed by his brother Modest in his autobiography : "Women were never the object of [his] infatuations ; physically, they aroused in him only indifference." He felt both attracted to and repelled by the homosexual subculture he became well acquainted with, and did not consider himself its member : the sense of values his upbringing instilled in him contravened the flamboyant gay life style, adopted, for instance, by his friend Apukhtin [and] his brother Modest (1850-1916), who was also gay, and who lived relatively openly with his boyfriend Nikolai (‘Kolia’) Hermanovich Konradi (1868-1923), a deaf and dumb boy whom Modest tutored and with whom he lived for about seventeen years from 1876.
[...] Vladimir Lvovich Davïdov (1871-1906) to whom he dedicated the Symphonie Pathétique (1893) – Tchaikovsky’s nephew nicknamed ‘Bob’ – became his lover from the late 1880s. Tchaikovsky was always homesick during his musical tours abroad – he hated the loneliness of large cities – and he always longed to get back home to be with his beloved nephew – ‘my idol’ – whom he made his heir. His letter to Bob from a hotel room in London in May 1893 shows this correspondence to have been his life-line: ‘I am writing to you with a voluptuous pleasure. The thought that this paper is going to be in your hands fills me with joy and brings tears to my eyes.’ Later that year ‘Kolia’ chucked out Modest, and there were plans to set up an apartment in St Petersburg where Modest, Piotr and Bob would live together.
But it was not to be, for in November 1893, less than a month after the premiere of the Symphonie Pathétique, Tchaikovsky [...] died from cholera, caused by drinking an unboiled glass of water. [He] dined at a restaurant with Bob after seeing a play, and insisted on being brought a glass of water even though it was unboiled and even though his friends remonstrated with him. (Another version has it that he ran to the kitchen in Modest’s apartment to get the unboiled water, shouting ‘Who cares anyway!’) On November 2 he fell ill, and on November 6 he was dead, from kidney failure and dehydration caused by vomiting and diarrhoea. But death from cholera cannot possibly occur so soon after an infection, and even Rimsky-Korsakov, who paid his respects to the composer’s body in Modest’s apartment, thought it was strange that the apartment had not been disinfected and that people were even allowed to kiss the corpse despite government regulations that required that the coffin be sealed in cases of cholera. Rumors of suicide began to fly. In the 1920s one of the doctors who attended him, Vasily Bertenson, admitted that Tchaikovsky had poisoned himself.
The facts of Tchaikovsky's death [...] was privately known in Soviet musical circles in the 1920s and 1930s (including people such as Alexander Glazunov) that Tchaikovsky had not died of cholera, but had killed himself. [...] In autumn 1893 Duke Stenbok-Fermor wrote a letter addressed to Tsar Alexander III complaining of the attentions the composer was paying his (the Duke's) young nephew [...]. Exposure would have meant loss of civil rights and exile to Siberia, and public disgrace not only for Tchaikovsky, but for his fellow former students of the School of Jurisprudence. [...] [The letter was intercepted and ] a court of honor of the old boys of the school [...] required Tchaikovsky to kill himself and he had promised to comply with their demand. A day or two later his illness was reported. Nataliya Kuznetsova-Fladimova, the granddaughter of the sister of the wife of Tchaikovsky’s eldest brother Nikolay, after reading [this] account in 1987, told her that the story was true, and was the same story told by her grandmother who died very old in 1955. Her grandmother also said that Tsar Alexander III was shown the incriminating letter to Count Stenbok after Tchaikovsky’s death.
[...] Tchaikovsky's most recent biographer Alexander Poznansky rejects the court of honor story because he does not believe such things could happen in the civilized society that Russia was at this time. Poznansky even points out that there were other homosexuals in the School of Jurisprudence, such as the statesman Vladimir Meshesvsky, who was protected by the Tsar after being denounced for seducing a bugle boy in the imperial marching band, However, trying to seduce the son of Count Stenbok might well have been considered more reprehensible and damaging to the public image of the School. In any event, the historian Simon Karlinsky has proved that courts of honor did in fact exist at the time (though usually they only demanded resignations etc., as when Chekhov’s editor was called to a court of honor). Karlinsky acknowledges that the Russian law against homosexuality – more specifically, Paragraph 995 which prohibited mujilostra or anal intercourse between men – was not very often enforced. Nevertheless, there was a very notable scandal during Tchaikovsky’s day, when a teacher who had seduced many teenage boys was tried and convicted, and exiled to the provincial city of Seratov for five years. (The maximum penalty was resettlement in Siberia for a period of five years.) Tolstoy in his book Resurrection mentions the case of a prominent homosexual who escapes legal punishment, and calls this a case of ‘evil triumphant’. In other words, homosexuality was neither legal nor respectable in Russia, In any case Tchaikovsky’s own comments quoted at the beginning of this essay indicate that a suspicion of homosexuality was often used to shame people. And he often felt shame, or at least regret, over his own homosexuality, writing in his diary, for example, ‘What can I do to be normal?’ The enigmatic Fate motif in his Fourth Symphony probably stands for the ‘tragic curse’ of his homosexual orientation.
[...] The [Pathétique's] last movement, the Adagio Lamentoso, is prophetic not only of Tchaikovsky’s own death, but also that of its dedicatee, Bob Davïdov, who became curator of the Tchaikovsky Museum at his uncle’s home in Klin, and who killed himself, at the age of thirty-five.
The great hopes that Tchaikovsky had once had for his favourite nephew were never fulfilled. Bob never developed into the outstanding personality that his uncle saw in him, and while endowed with certain musical and artistic gifts, he never became more than a dilettante. His presence at the deathbed agony of his beloved uncle seems to have severely traumatized his own psyche, and he soon lost all interest not only in success in life, but even in life itself. There have been rumours of morphine addiction, not at all surprising given the fate of his mother and his elder sister, with whom he had become particularly close in the last years of her life. Continuous awareness of his role in his uncle's life and of the fact that he must inevitably live in his uncle's shadow may have further contributed to his deterioration. Throughout his life Bob suffered agonizing headaches that drove him to despair - and, according to his brother Yury, to suicide. While such an explanation is obviously shaky, until new documentary evidence is brought to light we shall not know the direct cause and circumstances of Bob Davydov's death. in 1906, at the age of thirty-four, Bob shot himself in an apparent fit of depression.
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky to Vladimir Lvovich Davïdov
2 May 1891
Things have gone so far that it is quite impossible to write letters. Not a free moment, and I scarcely manage to write my diary. I made a trip to Niagara. As soon as I returned I had to visit one Mayer at his country house and pay some visits in the few free hours I had left. Then I was invited out to lunch. Altogether I have been frightfully busy, and I am completely numb with exhaustion. Tonight I have to be at a big dinner, and then leave at midnight for Baltimore; tomorrow a rehearsal and concert there, the day after that Washington, then Philadelphia, then two days here, where all my time is already booked, and at last, on the morning of the 21st, I leave. Oh God! Will I ever come to that happy moment!!!
In about a week after you receive this letter I will be with you!!! This seems an unattainable, impossible happiness! I try to think of it as little as possible, to have enough strength to stand up to the last insufferable days. But in spite of all I feel that I shall remember America with love. Everybody has been wonderfully kind.
Here are a few newspaper cuttings. Shall bring many more with me. I think that you will all much prefer reading my diary than getting only short news from my letters.
I embrace you all.
In only one week!!!
Town of Klin
District of Moscow
25 June 1891
As promised I can report that I finished the sketches for the ballet yesterday evening. You remember how, when you were here, I boasted that I had only about five days work left. How wrong I was, for I barely managed it in two weeks. No! the old man is definitely deteriorating. Not only is his hair thinning and as white as snow; not only are his teeth falling out and refusing to chew; not only is his sight deteriorating and his eyes getting tired; not only are his legs beginning to drag –p but the only faculty he has is beginning to fade and disappear. . . . I get very tired if I read in the evenings – it always results in a frightful headache. But unless I read I don't know how else to kill time at night. This (I mean headaches as a result of reading), is becoming a serious obstacle to life in the country, which made me decide to look for a place to live that was not in the suburbs of Petersburg but in the town itself. In general I think it would be simpler to settle in Petersburg for good. Just the possibility alone to be able to see more of you is so vitally important for me. I would love to know what you are doing. Write at least a few words. . . .
Klin, District of Moscow
22 July 1891
I am definitely coming to Kamenka, for I feel from your letter that you would like me to come, and also because I have a great desire to see you. . . .
You are not at all like an empty suitcase. There are plenty of things in it but they are still kept in disorder and it will take time to decide and sort out those that are important. However, stop worrying, for it will all sort itself out. Enjoy your youth and learn to cherish time; the longer I live the more frightened I get at the aimless dissipation of this prieless element of life. This rather high-flown sentence is nothing more than the advice to read as much as possible. You have an excellent gift of assimilating what you have read, I mean you do not forget it but put it away in a sort of mental store-room until you need it. I do not possess such a store-room. To be honest – no memory at all. Am sending several numbers of the Fliegende Blätter.
I embrace you, my idol!
12-24 January 1892
I feel an awful fool. Here I have another two weeks without anything to help me kill time. I thought this would be easier in Paris than anywhere else but, except for the first day, I have been bored. Since yesterday I do not know what to think up to be free of the worry and boredom that come from idleness. . . . Am still keeping my incognito. . . .
I often think of you and see you in my dreams, usually looking sad and depressed. This has added a feeling of compassion to my love for you and makes me love you even more. Oh God! How I want to see you this very minute. Write me a letter from College during some boring lecture and send it to this address (14, Rue Richepanse). It will still reach me as I am staying here for nearly two weeks.
I embrace you with mad tenderness.
12 August 1892
My dear Golubchik!
I have just received your letter, and was terribly pleased to hear that you are in a happy state of mind. Could it be that one of my letters to you has been lost? I did not write very often but I did write. With all my soul I long to join you, and think about it all the time. But what can I do? There are more and more complications and more work every day. . . .
So all I can say is that it is impossible for me to leave before I have finished all my business in Moscow.
I embrace you to suffocation!!!
14 August 1892
I have just received the Paris photographs from Yurgenson and have told him to send four of them to you. I was so glad to see what a good likeness they were that I nearly started crying in the presence of Yurgenson. All this proof correction had completely destroyed all other feelings and thoughts and it had to be this little incident which made me feel again how strong my love for you is. . . . Oh God! How I want to see you.
I embrace you.
16-28 December 1892
I am still sitting in Berlin. I haven't got enough energy to leave – especially as there is no hurry. These last days I have been considering and reflecting on matters of great importance. I looked perfectly objectively through my new symphony and was glad that I had neither orchestrated it or launched it; it makes a quite unfavourable impression. . . . What must I do? Forget about composing? Too difficult to say. So here I am, thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and not knowing what to decide. Whatever happens these last three days were unhappy ones.
I am however, quite well, and have at last decided to leave for Basle tomorrow. You wonder why I am writing about all this to you? Just an irresistible longing to chat with you. . . . The weather is quite warm. I can picture you sitting in your room, scented nearly to suffocation, working at your college exercises. How I would love to be in that dear room! Give my love to everybody.
I embrace you.
If only I could give way to my secret desire, I would leave everything and go home.
11 February 1893
If you do not want to write, at least spit on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and send it to me. You are not taking any notice of me at all. God forgive you – all I wanted was a few words from you.
I am going to Moscow tonight. The concert will be on the 14th. On the 15th I shall be going to Nijny-Novgorod for about three days and from there straight to Petersburg. About the end of the second week in Lent, therefore, I shall be with you.
I want to tell you about the excellent state of mind I'm in so far as my works are concerned. You know that I destroyed the symphony I had composed and partly orchestrated in the autumn. And a good thing too! There was nothing of interest in it – an empty play of sounds, without inspiration. Now, on my journey, the idea of a new symphony came to me, this time one with a programme, but a programme that will be a riddle for everyone. Let them try and solve it. The work will be entitled A Programme Symphony (No. 6) Symphonie à Programme (No. 6), Eine Programmsinfonie (Nr. 6) [Modest suggested the title finally adopted, Symphonie Pathétique]. The programme of this symphony is completely saturated with myself and quite often during my journey I cried profusely. Having returned I have settled down to write the sketches and the work is going so intensely, so fast, that the first movement was ready in less than four days, and the others have taken shape in my head. Half of the third movement is also done. There will still be much that is new in the form of this work and the finale is not to be a loud allegro, but the slowest adagio. You cannot imagine my feelings of bliss now that I am convinced that the time has not gone forever, and that I can still work. Of course, I may be wrong, but I do not think so. Please, do not tell anyone, except Modest.
I purposely address the letter to the College, so that no one shall read it. Does all this really interest you? It sometimes seems to me that you are not interested at all and that you have no real sympathy for me. Good-bye, my dear. . . .
17-29 May 1893
I am writing to you with a voluptuous pleasure. The thought that this paper is going to be in your hands fills me with joy and brings tears to my eyes. Is it not curious that I voluntarily inflict upon myself all these tortures? What the devil do I want it all for? Several times yesterday, on my way, I wanted to run away; but somehow I felt ashamed to return empty-handed. Yesterday my tortures reached such a pitch that I lost both appetite and sleep and this happens very rarely. I am suffering not only from anguish and distress which cannot be expressed in words (in my new symphony there is a place which I think expresses it very well) but also from a vague feeling of fear and the devil only knows what else. The physical symptoms are pains at the bottom of my bowels, and aching and weakness in the legs. So, definitely, this is the last time I am going through all this. From now on I shall agree to go anywhere only for a very large sum of money and not for more than three days. . . .
3 [or 2] August 1893
In my last letter to Modest I complain that you don't want to know me, and now he is silent too, and all links with your crowd are completely broken. . . .
What makes me sad is that you take so little interest in me. Could it be that you are positively a hard egotist? However, forgive me, I won't pester you again. The symphony which I was going to dedicate to you (not so sure that I shall now) is getting on. I am very pleased with the music but not entirely satisfied with the instrumentation. It does not come out as I hoped it would. It will be quite conventional and no surprise if this symphony is abused and unappreciated – that has happened before. But I definitely find it my very best, and in particular the most sincere of all my compositions. I love it as I have never loved any of my musical children.
. . . At the end of August I shall have to go abroad for a week. If I were sure that you would still be in Verbovka in September I would love to come at the beginning of the month. But I know nothing about you.
I embrace you with all my love.
mercredi 6 février 2008
The first diary is easy : Keynes lists his sexual partners, either by their initials (GLS for Lytton Strachey, DG for Duncan Grant) or their nicknames ("Tressider," for J. T. Sheppard, the King's College Provost). When he apparently had a quick, anonymous hook-up, he listed that sex partner generically: "16-year-old under Etna" and "Lift boy of Vauxhall" in 1911, for instance, and "Jew boy," in 1912. This list, where he names names but gives no details, Keynes organised year-by-year. He was scrupulously honest, too, even in times of sexual famine. For three years running — 1903 to 1905 — he records no sexual partners ; ‘nil,' he admitted. As he became older, though, the number of his partners increased dramatically, so that for 1911 he lists eight partners (although half of these are probably one-time pick-ups), for 1915 he lists seven, and for 1913 (his highest score) he lists nine different partners. One or two men are repeaters : DG (Duncan Grant), for example, runs throughout.
The other sex diary is more puzzling and, in a way, more informative. An economist to the core, Keynes organized the second sex diary also year-by-year, but this time in quarterly increments. Unfortunately for us, however, this second sex diary is in code. And as far as I know, no one yet has been prurient enough to crack it. Here's what Keynes' tabulation looks like. For every quarter-year from 1906 to 1915, he tallies up his sexual activities and totals them under three categories: C, A, and W.
For each of these headings, he records the number of times each activity occurred, and also when. For example, between May and August, 1911, he performed (if that's the right word) C 16 times, A four times, and W five times. Whenever I have had the chance [...] I have asked people to free associate to Keynes' code.
When presented with "A" they invariable said "ass", which is almost undoubtedly right, but it leaves open the question of who/whom. Is it giving or receiving? The legal term for anal intercourse (vaguely defined) is per anum, and in Keynes' day it could get you thrown in jail with hard labour, as happened to Oscar Wilde in 1895 when, to his surprise and eventual devastation, he was put away for two years. So Keynes, understandably, is taking care in this diary to hide his activity. As for "W", everyone says right away, "wanking," or masturbating. The problem with this decoding is that one would expect the numbers for W to be the highest (how sexually active could Keynes possibly have been?), but in fact the totals for W are the lowest for the three categories. Surprisingly, for several quarters, W happened zero times. So either Keynes didn't bother to masturbate, or he didn't need to because his other numbers are so high.
The tricky one is C. What springs to mind (well, to my mind) is "copulation," or "cop" as Keynes would have said, but copulation is a very vague term (again, who/whom, and exactly how does this work?). In 1920s London the word did not necessarily always mean sexual intercourse of any variety (as we use it today) but could suggest only a kiss on the cheek (I beg your pardon, not that cheek) or a quick squeeze. In fact any flirtation beyond mere suggestive banter could come under the heading of "cop." [Another] suggested "cock-sucking", but while an appealing idea, I think it's rather less likely than the more generalised (and flirtatious) "cop." For one thing, according to Keynes' tabulation, what he did most frequently and consistently was C. It happened 17 times from May to August of 1908, 28 times (!) from August to November that year, 20 times from February to May of 1909, and so on. That's a lot of C. The high numbers for C loosely (but not consistently) correlate to university holidays, the break at Easter and the longer summer holiday, when Keynes would have had more leisure to pursue and enjoy his bouts of C. C therefore could be a general act — "cop" — a sweet time, maybe a kiss, maybe a little more, with a hoped-for return on investment. C could also stand for "cruising." Or even "cottaging," looking for sex in a public bathroom. Lest you think that "cruising" and "cottaging" are merely recent terms, may I suggest you brush up on your Polari?
Polari, or The Lost Language of Gay Men as Paul Baker has it in his wonderfully readable lexicon of that name, is the secret parlance through which gay men secretly communicated with each other during most of the 20th century. According to a recent article in the Guardian ("What brings you trolling back, then?" by Colin Richardson), it flourished between Oscar Wilde's trial in 1895 and the decriminalisation of homosexuality (in England) in 1967. Polari-speak is not so much "lost" now, as part of our common culture—witness "cruising", "cottaging", and even the most basic gay word, "camp". By the way, the next time you "cold-call" someone, looking for a positive outcome, you are speaking Polari.
If C is cruising, this could also account for the high numbers : Keynes, like other Englishmen of his time, was a big walker, and Cambridge is a grand place to walk, as is the countryside around it. London, too, is a walkable city, and, according to Matt Cook in his London and the Culture of Homosexuality, 1885-1914, a city dotted in Keynes' day with a vast number of known pick-up spots. Green Park, for example, was heavily trafficked, as were Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Leicester Square, and, if you were well-educated and preferred to be indoors, the British Museum.
But because "A" and "W" are most likely specific acts, not general ones, it's tempting to side with the Church historian and go with "cock" (sucking, or whatever). But I think I'll hedge here and choose "cop," which can include cock-sucking but could also just be kissing and fondling. Don't forget — Keynes did a lot of C ; it's consistently his highest number.
Would Keynes have known these terms? ("Cock", by the way, doesn't turn up in the Polari lexicon, maybe because it was a common obscenity, not limited to gay men.)
It depends on how cutting-edge he was, how hip. I suspect he did know, because Keynes knew practically everything. He also was notoriously "naughty" in speech, sharing a love of obscenity with his best friend (until Lydia), Virginia Woolf's sister, the painter Vanessa Bell.
My further guess is that this coded list has nothing to do with the specifically named lovers recorded on the first list but instead records only anonymous sex, and that therefore C, with its high tally, is something that happened easily, often and surreptitiously. Why keep a lengthy, specific tally, indexed by activity, if you're doing "it" every day anyway with the same person? If most days you have a bit A and you don't have to resort to W, why bother to note it? Not interesting. It makes more sense, as I see it, to keep a list of how often and under what circumstances you could possibly have sex, and then how often you scored. Seeking anonymous sex would be sort of like investing in the stock market (which Keynes did obsessively, trading daily before he even got out of bed) : invest often, hedge and maximise your chances, hope for the best.
To buttress my theory that this second tabulated diary records anonymous sex (or attempts at anonymous sex), and not on-going sex with a stable partner, there is another, very puzzling number attached to each quarterly increment. First, Keynes adds up all the three categories of activities — "C" plus "A" plus "W" — and then he attaches a number that doesn't seem to relate to any of them. These numbers range from 65 to 100. Doesn't that sound to you like a grade ?
Keynes was a young don, barely out of university, so my guess is that he's grading himself on performance. Most of his grades (if that's what they are) are in the 70s and 80s. That is, he attained pretty good sex but nothing to write home about. Only rarely does he award himself a grade of 95 or above (no grade-inflation here), but there is a 100 and there's even one 104. That 104 either disproves my theory or indicates a quarter-term of quite spectacular A+ sex.
What we do know is that, in the years Keynes was lecturing on economics at Cambridge, writing "Indian Currency and Finance", working on the book that later became "A Treatise on Probability", advising the Treasury in the run-up to the first world war, and (all this according to Robert Skidelsky, Keynes' principal biographer) speculating enthusiastically in the stock market, he had much more than a so-called life. You might say that Keynes was at least as invested in the sex market as the stock market.