W.H. AUDEN (1907-1973) in conversation with Stan Rogal
It was
late, late in the evening,
The
lovers they were gone;
The
clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the
deep river ran on
— from: As I Walked Out One Evening
It was late Sunday
morning. I was on my second cup of coffee, working my way through the Toronto
Star crossword puzzle, when the phone rang. It was the editor of Bridal Belles magazine. She sounded
frantic, explaining that she was in the middle of serving brunch to a houseful
of relatives arrived for a family reunion, meanwhile having just received a
garbled text informing her that W.H. Auden was in town for a wedding of some
sort, details being scant to the point of almost non-existent — a time and a place
— and would I be able to go and perhaps dig up a story of some sort, and yes,
of course, enquire about his poetry to soften him up if necessary, but,
remember, it’s first and foremost a personal interest or “puff” piece, not a
goddamn literary treatise, do I understand? She realized that it was last
minute and I would be doing her a huge favour, and she normally wouldn’t ask,
but her regular staffers are union members, so unavailable on weekends unless
paid obscene amounts of overtime, which was outside her budget for a poet who
(let’s face it) had lost his bloom, though maybe some appeal to the Zoomer
crowd on their third or fourth go-round, marriage-wise, as if to speak this
wish might make it true, and she knew that I was, as a rule (being single,
living alone, not even a cat) lacking any strict social or familial obligations
or constrictions — lucky man, she sighed, by way of massaging the message, I
supposed — adding, could I also take a few photos, not expecting them to be of the
same high quality as those of, say, an Annie Leibovitz, say, but do try NOT to
cut the heads off. Please, I’m begging you, be a darling, say yes.
Did she remember — had she ever known
— that Auden was gay, and did it make a difference for Bridal Belles? The question being above my pay scale, I let it go,
unasked.
Anyway, as she was mostly correct in her assumptions — my only plan being to catch the Bills play the Ravens later in the afternoon — I agreed, and took down the necessary information, recognizing that I could do the interview and still be home in time for the game, or, as my destination was an address in the Annex, I could always mosey over to Pauper’s Pub and watch the game on a big screen over a burger and a couple of glasses of Australian red. My outlook on the day had taken a sudden turn for the better.
I did a quick search of the man in question, so as to shake off the rust, and found, among other things, that ‘Auden’s poetry was encyclopaedic in scope and methods, ranging in style from obscure 20th century modernism to the lucid traditional forms such as ballads and limericks, from doggerel through haiku and villanelles to a “Christmas Oratorio” and a baroque eclogue in Anglo-Saxon meters. The tone and content of the poems ranged from pop-song clichés to complex philosophical meditations.’
Carrying the diversity theme a step or two further, Auden himself once wrote: ‘Words so excite me that a pornographic story, for example, excites me sexually more than a living person can do.’
Well, I thought, impressive, and I’d best be on my toes.
It was a mild September day, clear blue skies, and I decided to walk the thirty minutes from my place in Bloorcourt Village into The Annex. I turned south from Bloor onto Brunswick, strode past Future’s Bakery toward a laneway and a parking lot where I was struck by an image reminiscent of that famous photo of Joan Didion, posed fashionably Boho-chic in a long sleeve dress and sandals, one arm stretched across her thin waist, the other arm extended in front of her, a smoldering cigarette jammed between two fingers, an icy glare on her face, a heavy nonchalance weighing on her shoulders, her slim body leaned provocatively against a 1968 Corvette Stingray. Classic. Except in this case, the car was a late-model Volvo SUV, the lanky figure wore an elegant tulle and lace bridal gown, and the bride was no other than W.H. Auden himself, his creased and furrowed features unmistakable with the veil pulled back.
I approached the man and introduced myself as a freelance reporter. He jumped in excitedly before I could say from which magazine, and said, ah, yes, fantastic, I was told I might expect someone, if it could be managed, under the circumstances and so on, and here you are, the knight in shining armour, bravo! He apologized for being unable to offer me a chair, but that’s just the way things are going today, he added, obviously flustered, and took a long drag from his cigarette. I said that was no problem and sat myself down on a low wooden planter that separated the asphalt from the lawn. I took out my tape recorder and figured I’d begin with a nice open-ended question, as he seemed in a mood to vent.
SR: What do mean by, ‘That’s the way things are going today.’ Is something wrong?
WH: Not something, everything! It’s all a been total disaster up to this point. Nothing has gone according to plan. Not that one doesn’t or shouldn’t expect a few glitches along the way, especially when planning for something as momentous as a wedding, but, I mean, come on, really… This is too much. As I say, a total disaster. (I was going to ask him to elaborate, but the question was unnecessary, as he took a final puff of his cigarette, flicked the butt with expert dexterity across the lane, and proceeded with his story). I wasn’t supposed to be here, you see. Not here, in this place, no. I was supposed to land in front of the Transit Music Club in Buffalo where we had a small reception room reserved for the wedding. Instead, I’m outside the Tranzac Club in Toronto, with no arrangements whatsoever in place. Now, I can almost understand the mix-up between the terms Transit and Tranzac, almost, but how mistake Toronto for Buffalo? Hm? How? It’s beyond comprehension. It boggles the mind. (He gave me a hard stare). It boggles my mind, at any rate. There was some talk of turbulence, of sun spots, of Mercury being in retrograde… I don’t know. It’s beyond me. (He pursed his lips). Look at me. I’m a total wreck. (He fluttered his hands in front of his face and breathed in through his nose). And just minutes away from what’s supposed to be zero hour. Fortunately, the bride is traditionally late, so there’s that to fall back on. The saving grace, so to speak, as there are people in the background hard at work at this very precarious moment attempting to rectify the situation. (He produced a cigarette and lighter from a pocket and lit up). We actually may have got a bit lucky, as it turns out, being here, as opposed to, well, somewhere else, middle of nowhere, if you get my drift, knock on wood. (He tapped his forehead with his fingertips).
SR: Uh-huh. Excuse me, but, before we talk about the possible solve, perhaps you could provide me with a bit of an overview as to the why and wherefore of the wedding, including you being dressed as the bride. As it stands, I’m somewhat lost at the moment.
WH: No one told you? They didn’t forward you a press package with the details?
SR: (I shook my head, no. He seemed to be under the false impression that I was representing a major newspaper, or something. I didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble, so I deflected). I only got word this morning, bare bones, third or fourth hand.
WH: What did I tell you? An unmitigated disaster. (He clenched his fists in the air and bared his teeth with a low growl. He shrugged and took a deep breath). Well, in a nutshell, I have been called upon to enter into a marriage of convenience with one Dembe Odongo, a young lesbian poet, novelist, political dissident and general shit disturber living in Uganda who recently discovered that her name has been placed on a most-wanted hit list — or most un-wanted, let’s be honest — targeting her for either imprisonment or death or both, Uganda being a mainly Christian country and having some of the strictest laws against homosexuality, right up there next to ‘love thy neighbour’ and ‘do unto others,’ and so a dire and urgent need to get her out of Dodge, pronto, as they say in the movies. By marrying a reputable American male citizen, such as myself (he took a mock bow of the head, lifted one corner of his dress, and curtsied), she’ll be able to placate the government officials, emigrate, and apply for her Green Card.
SR: (I took a second to consider the situation in toto). Uh-huh. So, is Dembe, at this moment in time, waiting for you in Buffalo, or…?
WH: Good heavens no! If that was the case half the battle would be won already. The minister is in Buffalo, Dembe is in Uganda, I’m here. It was all supposed to be videotaped and the ceremony itself conducted via an internet connection of some sort. I’m unsure of the technical details.
SR: I see. But won’t you, dressed as the bride — and she as the groom, I’m guessing, in a tux — raise suspicions among those same officials? As fraudulent, I mean.
WH: Oh, the video is strictly for her as a ‘fuck you’ (he raised a middle finger) to the powers that be, only to be shown later to friends and close associates. It’ll be strictly legally registered documents that get sent to the government. The bare minimum at that. (He spiked the cigarette between his lips and sucked deeply).
SR: Speaking of which, won’t those documents contain copies of birth certificates and so on? I mean, doesn’t that pose a problem given your recorded dates?
WH: Oh, where I come from, it’s the easiest thing in the world to alter a few facts and figures here and there — for the greater good, you know — and not worth breaking a sweat over. I’ve performed the same deed several times over the decades. You’d think the world would have changed by now, grown more advanced, more tolerant, become more accepting, but, alas, no. In fact, it might be getting worse.
SR: So…several…you say, marriages of convenience?
WH: Yes, and all unconsummated. In fact, many of my poems were inspired by unconsummated love. (He grinned at this, somewhat proudly). My entire emotional life can be summed up in a couplet: “If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me.”
SR: Uh-huh. Noble-sounding, if not a bit sad.
WH: You think? I often wonder if that wasn’t the singular reason I died of heart failure in the end. Someone once wrote, and I quote (he raised an index finger in the air): ‘Auden is someone with a deep social conscience who wants to highlight injustices and atrocities where he finds them,’ unquote. It seems likely that I had given too much of myself. My poor heart couldn’t take it anymore. It had been quite drained. (He made a tragic face and pressed the palms of his hands to his heart. He quickly adjusted his pose and protruded his lower lip into a pout). Or is that perhaps being a bit too melodramatic; a bit too maudlin or precious-sounding?
SR: Perhaps. A bit.
WH: (He puffed his cigarette and pursed his lips, teasingly). Even dressed as I am? For the occasion, I mean? I should tell you that once upon a long time ago, I played Katherina in a university production of The Taming of the Shrew wherein a reviewer duly noted that ‘despite a poor wig,’ I was able to infuse considerable dignity into passionate outbursts.
SR: (I eyed him up and down, unsure as to what he was trying to impress upon me, and finally decided to get back to our prior line of questioning). Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you first provide this proxy marriage service back in the 1930’s?
WH: Yes, in 1935 I married Erika Mann, lesbian novelist daughter to Thomas Mann, when it became apparent that the Nazis were intending to strip her of her German citizenship. We were all close friends. She asked, and I said, of course, yes, immediately. It was the right thing to do. We never lived together but remained on good terms and were still legally married when she died in 1969. Brain tumour. (He drills a fingertip into the side of his skull). You see? For her, she was too much in the head, whereas for me, too much in the heart, poof!
SR: I see, yes.
WH: A year later, her lover, actress Therese Giehse, required the same quick procedure, and married my good friend, John Hampson.
SR: I’m not familiar with the name.
WH: Yes, I’m not surprised. He was what one might call a ‘one-hit wonder’ novelist, that descriptor being applied due to the third novel he’d written, and the first to be published, Saturday Night at the Greyhound. (He smoked his cigarette, bobbed his head and shoulders, and laughed). His actual first written novel, Go Seek a Stranger, remained unpublished due to its overtly homosexual content. Virginia Woolf had read it, and once remarked: ‘I still think his first purely sodomitic novel the best.’ I can picture her, dear girl, saying this in a tone of complete sincerity and casualness. Even the word ‘sodomitic.’ Priceless.
SR: Right, so, any ideas on how you’re going to proceed, given the circumstances?
WH: I’m afraid our possibilities are limited. Someone initially had the idea of hiring an actor to play me and meet up with the minister in Buffalo. The name Hugh Grant was bandied about. Turns out he’s under contract at the moment, so, unavailable.
SR: Hugh Grant? He’s quite well-known, quite popular.
WH: So I gather. His agent added that while Mr. Grant had played gay politicians in the past, he felt that playing a gay poet might be stretching credulity a bit far. (He throws his hands in the air, as if in disbelief). I had never heard of the man. I thought they chose him as my middle name is also Hugh.
SR: Uh-huh. He was in a 1994 rom-com film called Four Weddings and a Funeral, where a poem of yours, interestingly enough, Funeral Blues, was read in its entirety by a character named Matthew at his partner Gareth’s funeral.
WH: Yes, of course, why not? Whereas poetry is generally dismissed and disdained by the public at large, they’re only too happy to drag a few choice verses out of the closet — euphemism intended — tart them up and put them on display for such lurid and sentimental events: ‘Stop all the clocks, cut the telephone / Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone / Silence the pianos and with muffled drum / Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.’ Everyone has a good cry, then, back to the darkness from whence the poem came. As I once also wrote: ‘Poetry makes nothing happen.’
SR: Due to the success of the film, someone issued a pamphlet edition of ten of your poems, including Funeral Blues, titled Tell Me the Truth About Love, that sold more than 275,000 copies.
WH: Ha! Well, there you go. Give it a set of tits, a pair of cast iron balls, slip it into a party dress, stick one finger down its throat, three fingers up its bum, and you create a sensation suitable for public consumption. I can tell you in all honestly, I never received a plug nickel for either the film or the pamphlet, go figure.
SR: Joseph Brodsky called you ‘the greatest mind of the 20th century;’ Hugh MacDiarmid said you were ‘a complete wash-out;’ Harold Bloom wrote ‘close thy Auden, open thy Stevens.’ How do you reply?
WH: (He stretched a smile across his worn face). I don’t. Besides, nothing wrong with Stevens, if that’s your thing. (He puckered and popped his lips, like a kiss).
SR: (He seemed happy to leave it at that, so I moved on). Uh-huh. You mentioned to me earlier that you might’ve had a stroke of luck in solving your current dilemma.
WH: Yes, fingers crossed, BUT, the Tranzac Club has a room available, The Southern Cross — symbolic, or what? — complete with wet bar, and their technician just happened to be here checking out equipment. Anyway, she thinks she might be able to set up a camera to record the service along with a computer with which we can ZOOM link with the minister in Buffalo and Dembe in Uganda, then pop the chilled Prosecco. Fabulous, if it works.
SR: You don’t have to be on American soil personally to make it legal?
WH: Apparently not, so long as the minister is in Buffalo, it’s all legit. (A head popped out from around the wall and we were told that everything was in order and they were set to go, if Auden was ready to join them). Ah, that’s my cue, it’s show time! Anything else?
SR: No, I think we’re done here in terms of the information I need. Though, a couple of pictures, if you don’t mind.
Auden crushed his cigarette and I noticed he was wearing a pair of white yellow patch wingtip brogue oxford lace-up shoes. I guessed he didn’t expect the camera to shoot his feet. He obliged me with several extravagant poses. I took a few snaps, though, inside my heart-of-hearts, I was pretty sure the editor wouldn’t use any of them. Along with the story, for that matter, which would likely be shoved into the back of a file cabinet listed as unsuitable for the regular subscribers of Bridal Belles, to be eventually lost and/or forgotten. Whatever, I’d get paid for the gig regardless, budgetary restrictions be damned. I thanked Auden for his time and gave him my best wishes and congratulations to him and Demba and headed to Pauper’s to watch the football game. Who knows, I thought, maybe the Bills would have a little of Auden’s luck rub off on them. At any rate, the burger and the wine would be on him, for sure, which was definitely something, not nothing, ha-ha-ha.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks. Currently seeking a new publisher: anyone??? Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
