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Graham Greene belonged to the last generation that could think of the world as containing unexplored places. His childhood reading included many stories of Victorian travellers. When he was fourteen, he wrote to the explorer William S. Bruce, criticising his book Polar Exploration, and wished fervently to visit the South Pole himself.¹⁹As a young man, he undertook many journeys, including particularly reckless ones to Ireland in 1923 and the Ruhr in 1924. Even his early works often incorporate distant settings; for example, The Name of Action has Germany for its background, and Stamboul Train sets key events at Subotica on the border of Hungary and Serbia. Research for England Made Me (1935) brought him to Denmark and Sweden in the summer of 1933. He visited Paris frequently and was there to report on the aftermath of the Stavisky riots of 1934. In May of that year he visited Latvia and Estonia, a trip that would eventually influence the writing of Our Man in Havana.

Greene’s most dangerous journey came at the beginning of 1935. Accompanied by his beautiful and intrepid young cousin Barbara Greene (later Countess Strachwitz) and their carriers, he undertook the jungle trek through Sierra Leone and Liberia described in Journey Without Maps (1936). He had literally no idea of what lay before him: ‘The whole trip gets more & more fantastic every day; at last I’ve managed to get a fairly large scale map; most of it blank white with dotted lines showing the probable course of rivers!’ (this page) He wrote of Liberia, as he might have written of most of his destinations: ‘There seemed to be a seediness about the place you couldn’t get to the same extent elsewhere, and seediness has a very deep appeal … It seems to satisfy, temporarily, the sense of nostalgia for something lost’.²⁰That nostalgia nearly killed him, as he contracted fever, treated it with quinine and whisky, and survived only by luck (and perhaps thanks to Barbara), but he was surprised by what happened when the fever was at its worst: ‘I had discovered in myself a passionate interest in living. I had always assumed before, as a matter of course, that death was desirable’.²¹

Confident of making a living with his pen, in 1935 he rented, and a year later purchased, a large house at Clapham Common – a source of particular pride to Vivien, who filled it with costly antiques. His standing as an author and reviewer was by now such that he was able to convince Hamish Hamilton to publish Swami and Friends (1935), the first novel of the distinguished Indian writer R. K. Narayan. Throughout his career, Narayan was venerated by critics but ignored by readers in Britain. In the years to come, Greene would cajole and badger agents and publishers to make sure that Narayan’s works were published and promoted as they deserved.

Part of Greene’s own success was that he could produce books that appealed to the popular market. He had become expert in writing thrillers, among them A Gun for Sale (1936) and The Confidential Agent (1939). One of his most admired novels, Brighton Rock (1938), began in the seediness of racetracks as a murder story, but ‘turned round and bit me’ (this page) as a reflection on good and evil and the chances of clemency: ‘You can’t conceive, my child, nor can I or anyone the … appalling … strangeness of the mercy of God’.²²

In early 1938 Greene visited Mexico to report on the persecution of the Catholic Church in the states of Chiapas and Tabasco. Leaving behind him in England a libel case brought by Twentieth Century Fox and Shirley Temple for his review of Wee Willie Winkie in the short-lived magazine Night and Day (in which he described the child star as having ‘a certain adroit coquetry which appealed to middle-aged men’),²³Greene found Mexico a desperate and unpleasant country, and it seems he could not abide Mexicans. As the years passed, this view reversed itself; Greene visited Latin America and the Caribbean many times, setting several of his most important books there. Lawless Roads (1939) is an observant but dyspeptic work that honours the courage of a people he does not like. Greene’s most admired novel, The Power and the Glory (1940), also set in Mexico’s ‘atmosphere of desertion’, describes the martyrdom of a whisky priest. Pursuing an idea ‘of frightening difficulty & hazard’ (this page), Greene crystallised for the first time the dialogue between Catholic and communist belief central to many of his subsequent works: ‘“We agree about a lot of things,” the priest said, idly dealing out his cards. “We have facts, too, we don’t try to alter – that the world’s unhappy whether you are rich or poor – unless you are a saint, and there aren’t many of those.” ’²⁴

The coming of the war marked the end of Greene’s marriage. He began a serious affair with a stage designer named Dorothy Glover, which continued into the late 1940s. With Vivien and the children evacuated to the country, Greene went into the Ministry of Information, working in the nights as a fire warden, often alongside Dorothy. In October 1940, the house at Clapham Common was bombed. Although saddened by the destruction, he was also relieved of a financial burden, and the end of the house seemed to promise his release from a domestic life he found unbearably claustrophobic. He confided his marriage problems to his sister Elisabeth: ‘I always used to laugh at emotional situations and feel they couldn’t any of them beat toothache. One lives and learns.’ (this page)

In 1941, Elisabeth, who had herself joined the Secret Intelligence Service at the start of the war, recruited him, and he was sent back to Sierra Leone as an MI6 officer – a lonely, out-of-the-way posting. There, he gathered many of the impressions that would shape The Heart of the Matter (1948). While not searching cargo ships and vaguely keeping track of the Vichy forces in French Guinea, he wrote The Ministry of Fear (1943), the best of his thrillers, a work that evoked with terrible clarity the atmosphere of wartime London, a setting he would describe again in The End of the Affair (1951). Personal news reached him by cable, first that he had won the Hawthornden Prize for The Power and the Glory, then that his father had died – of diabetic complications. In Sierra Leone, he remarked: ‘I’ve had an odd life when I come to think of it. Useless and sometimes miserable, but bizarre and on the whole not boring.’ (this page)

Greene returned to London in March 1943. He worked under the Soviet agent Kim Philby in the Iberian section of MI6, in St Albans. His relationship with Philby was warm – Philby had great charm and was a convivial and deep drinker—and survived his defection to the Soviet Union in 1963. Nonetheless, in June 1944 Greene left the service because of Philby’s efforts to gain control of counter-intelligence against the Soviets. Greene says that it appeared then that Philby was motivated by personal ambition (see this page). Whether he privately suspected Philby of being a Soviet infiltrator may never be known. In later years, Greene occasionally took on assignments for the service in a collegial fashion – he was never again in their employ – but seems not to have been an important figure in the field of intelligence. His usual contact with MI6 was Elisabeth’s husband, Rodney Dennys, a senior intelligence officer who gave up that career in 1957 largely because of his dissatisfaction with the ongoing internal investigation into the possibility of a larger Soviet spy network within MI6. Dennys opted for a scholarly life in the College of Arms, where he eventually became Arundel Herald Extraordinary, but remained informally in touch with MI6. He actually knew Philby much better than Greene did and was unforgiving, having personally trained some of the intelligence officers for whose deaths Philby was directly responsible.²⁵

Between 1944 and 1948, Greene worked at the publisher Eyre & Spottiswoode, having been a director of the firm for several years before that. He was responsible for the fiction list, bringing to the firm such authors as Mervyn Peake, R. K. Narayan and François Mauriac. He left after a conflict with the managing director, Douglas Jerrold, and a row with Anthony Powell, whom he accused of writing a ‘a bloody boring book’ (this page).

Greene’s life underwent a revolution in 1946. Catherine Walston (1916–78), the American wife of the Labour politician, later peer, Harry Walston, approached him to be her godfather as she was being received into the Catholic Church. They began a passionate, sometimes frantic, affair, which lasted more than a decade, coinciding with the worst period of Greene’s bipolar illness. The general outlines of The End of the Affair (1951), in which an author becomes involved with the wife of a civil servant, were inspired by this relationship; however, the major characters have obvious differences from Graham Greene and Catherine and Harry Walston.

In early 1947, Greene took a holiday with Catherine in Ireland, during which he wrote part of The Heart of the Matter (1948), the book so well received that he became a perennial, though disappointed, candidate for the Nobel Prize (always claiming, however, that he was in very good company). It also ensured that he became a Catholic celebrity. His friend, the poet Edith Sitwell, had remarked in 1945: ‘What a great priest you would have made. But you are better as you are.’²⁶When The Heart of the Matter was published, she wrote to a friend, ‘Have you read Graham Green’s new book? It may prevent me from committing suicide!!’²⁷But Green had to deal with more than the accolades of fellow writers; he was beset by troubled clergymen and devout neurotics looking for answers he was not qualified to give. In the meantime, his private life was in disarray. Finally separated from Vivien, who refused, on religious grounds, to allow a divorce, he found that Catherine, though willing to conduct an affair, would not marry him for fear of losing her children, and that Dorothy simply would not let him go. On several occasions he came near to suicide: ‘Perhaps the ban on killing oneself is only during the first three years of a policy.’ (this page)

For many years an influential film reviewer, he had worked as a scriptwriter for the producer Alexander Korda in the late 1930s. In the late 1940s he had his greatest success in the cinema. With Terence Rattigan, he co-wrote the script of Brighton Rock (1947). He then worked with Korda and the director Carol Reed – both close friends in this period – as the scriptwriter for The Fallen Idol (1948) and the great classic The Third Man (1949). Greene preferred the film of The Third Man to the novella published in 1950, and although he wrote scripts for Loser Takes All (1956), St Joan (1957), Our Man in Havana (1960) and The Comedians (1967), none of these achieved the same standard. Many of Greene’s stories were made into films by other scriptwriters – some of the results pleased him, but some, notably The Man Within (1947) and The Quiet American (1957), he regarded as abominations.

The 1950s saw Greene’s greatest success as a playwright, beginning with The Living Room in 1952, which embodied his frustration with Catholic marriage doctrine. His most admired play, The Potting Shed, about a family torn apart by the memory of an apparent miracle, was presented in different versions in New York in 1957 and London in 1958. The Complaisant Lover was first performed in 1959. His last major play, Carving a Statue (1964), was a failure that Greene rather harshly blamed on the acting of Sir Ralph Richardson, who had earlier turned in one of the great performances in British cinema as the butler Baines in The Fallen Idol, and another very strong performance as ‘C’ in Our Man in Havana.

From the late 1940s, Greene kept a flat in London, first in St James’s Street, then in Albany, an elegant and quiet enclave just yards from Piccadilly, which had in the nineteenth century numbered among its residents Lord Byron, William Gladstone and ‘Monk’ Lewis. He also had a small house in Anacapri where he did much of his writing. However, he spent long periods outside Europe. At the end of 1950 he visited Malaya, where his brother Hugh was in charge of psychological warfare against the Communist insurgency. His reasons for going there were not poetic: ‘Nature doesn’t really interest me – except in so far as it may contain an ambush – that is, something human.’ (this page) He later commented on war reporters’ habit of subtly congratulating themselves on their own courage: ‘I think when one is dealing with horrors one should write very coldly. Otherwise it reads like hidden boasting – “just see what a brave chap I am to have voluntarily put myself in the way of such experiences.” To adapt Wordsworth, horror should be remembered in tranquillity.’ (this page)

He went on to Vietnam in the first of four winter sojourns that led to the writing of The Quiet American (1955). From the 1950s until the end of his life, Greene criticised the Americans for meddling in Vietnam, Haiti and Latin America. In particular, he enjoyed creating ‘incidents’ that would expose the silliness of the McCarran Internal Security Act (1950), which was meant to keep members of dangerous organisations out of the country. That act was opposed by many Americans, including President Harry Truman, whose veto Congress overrode. Having briefly been a member of the Communist Party at Oxford, Greene repeatedly dared American officials to refuse him visas. The anti-American habit of mind was deeply ingrained and can be detected in his writings from the 1930s, when his knowledge of the country came chiefly from books and films. Indeed, several of his literary heroes – James, Pound and Eliot – had abandoned their supposedly uncultured homeland for Europe. The prejudice sometimes pushed him into untenable positions, as when, in his later years, he asserted moral equivalence between the superpowers and, occasionally, a preference for the Soviets (see this page).

In 1953 Greene reported on the Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya, but, like his trip to Malaya, this journey did not result in a novel. He made his first trip to Haiti in 1954, with Peter and Natasha Brook and the novelist Truman Capote, who Greene thought had ‘an odd psychic quality about him’ – he told Greene’s fortune with spectacular inaccuracy (see this page). They attended a voodoo ceremony, which included ‘a procession carrying fuel & food & dishes & a live hen. The man carrying the hen swung it like a censer, & then would dash to this & that member of the congregation & plaster his face & body with the live bird … More interminable prayers & then the bird’s feet were cracked off like cheese biscuits & the attendant put the live bird’s head in his mouth & bit it off’ (this page).

In the following year, Greene travelled to Alberta with his twenty-one-year-old daughter, Lucy Caroline. With his backing, she bought a ranch, which he visited often, writing portions of Our Man in Havana there: ‘It’s a strange feeling looking round at the country, hill & valley & stream, & knowing that Lucy is the owner. It makes one feel there’s some point in writing books after all.’ (this page) She married in Canada and had two sons, Andrew and Jonathan Bourget.

By the mid-fifties, there was little reason for Greene to hope for marriage from Catherine Walston. He began a relationship with the recently widowed Swedish actress Anita Björk. He found himself very much in love but Stockholm was dull, and his sense of humour shocked the Swedes. Short of asking Anita to abandon her career and live elsewhere, there was no hope of marriage or any other satisfying arrangement between them. By the end of the decade, Greene was in a profound depression and went so far as to seek electric-shock therapy from Dr Eric Strauss, who suggested instead that he write about his childhood. So, on doctor’s orders, he began his volume of autobiography, A Sort of Life, which did not actually appear until 1971.²⁸

Around 1958, Greene also started a novel about school life, but found the subject so grim that he abandoned it in favour of leprosy.²⁹He visited the Congo in early 1959, spending most of his time at a leproserie in Yonda in the company of Dr Michel Lechat and a group of Belgian missionaries. The novel that came from this experience, A Burnt-Out Case, was published at the beginning of 1961. Evelyn Waugh wrote: ‘It is the first time Graham has come out as specifically faithless – pray God it is a mood, but it strikes deeper and colder.’³⁰However, other Catholics thought well of it, among them Edith Sitwell, who described it as a ‘holy book’.³¹

Greene met Yvonne Cloetta in Cameroon in March 1959. Although for the sake of their children she did not divorce her husband, she became Greene’s de facto spouse for the next thirty-two years. An elegant and thoughtful woman, her temperament was more cheerful and moderate than those of Greene’s earlier loves. Her influence seems to have coincided with a quieting of the cycles of manic depression and the beginning of a happier phase in the novelist’s life. Nonetheless, Greene defended his right to be melancholy: ‘Does anybody really want to change a little? A complete change, I suppose, one could accept, but not a small change – otherwise one would be losing one’s thing.’ (this page)

Greene was always cagey about money, but in the early 1960s he was swindled by a financial adviser named Thomas Roe. After a long dispute, Greene squared things with the Inland Revenue at the beginning of 1966 by moving to Antibes, in the south of France. At just the moment one branch of the government was forcing him abroad, Downing Street was approving him as a Companion of Honour. Greene was actually glad to be nearer to Cloetta. Much of the rest of his life was spent in Paris, Antibes and Anacapri. He returned occasionally to England to see his family, to do business and, somewhat reluctantly, to collect medals and doctorates.

In 1963 and 1965 Greene returned to Haiti to observe the homicidal regime of President François ‘Papa Doc’ Duvalier, whose gang of national police thugs, the Tonton Macoutes, had kept him in power by torturing and killing his supposed opponents. Once Greene’s Haitian novel The Comedians was published in 1966, ‘Papa Doc’ developed a very personal hatred for its author, threatening him with death – much to Greene’s pleasure, since it was the only novel that he deliberately wrote to effect political change – by drawing the world’s attention to the plight of the Haitians. Greene’s main guide in Haiti was another man despised by the regime, the journalist Bernard Diederich, a New Zealander who also organised many of Greene’s journeys to Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Panama and Nicaragua.

By now in his mid-sixties, Greene opened new territory in his fiction with Travels with My Aunt (1969), a subtle work about old age and death. He felt the novel was much underrated by publishers and critics, many of whom thought it merely funny – which it is, too. Part of that novel was set in South America, and from 1968 he made a series of visits to Paraguay, Argentina and Chile that would also provide the background for The Honorary Consul (1973), a work that returned to the problems of faith and tyranny that had preoccupied him since The Power and the Glory. In the summer of 1973 he visited the farm in the Transvaal of the novelist Etienne Leroux, a journey that brought into focus the questions of apartheid addressed in The Human Factor (1978). That novel draws a portrait of a defector, whose actions, if not his motives, resemble Philby’s.

In July 1976, Greene took the first of a series of journeys through Spain and Portugal with his friend the literary scholar and priest Leopoldo Durán, who wrote a memoir of him. Out of their travels came Monsignor Quixote (1982), a work that considers age, death and illusion with the lightness of touch and the gentleness Greene had first demonstrated in Travels with My Aunt. He may have learned that particular set of narrative skills from many years of reading R. K. Narayan.

Greene made his first visit to Panama in December 1976 as the guest of the charismatic, anti-American head of government, General Omar Torrijos. He became particularly close to ‘Chuchu’, a member of the General’s bodyguard who happened to hold a doctorate from the Sorbonne. Torrijos took Greene (to his great delight) along with him as a member of the Panamanian delegation to Washington for the 7 September 1977 signing of the Panama Canal Treaty, an event attended by several South American despots who, in their own countries, would gladly have made the novelist disappear. After Torrijos’s death in an airplane crash in 1981, Greene wrote Getting to Know the General (1984), a memoir of Torrijos, Chuchu, and a country that became dangerous for him under the rule of Manuel Noriega.

A difficult and unproductive time for Graham Greene began in 1979, when he was treated for intestinal cancer. Although he was cured, more troubles were pressing on him. Yvonne’s daughter Martine was caught in a child-custody dispute with a former husband whose underworld connections seemed to shield him from the law. Martine, her parents and Greene were all threatened with violence. Described in a pamphlet he wrote called J’Accuse (1982), the conflict took five years to resolve and, by the end of it, Greene had finally become an old man. In his last decade he produced just one novel, The Captain and the Enemy (1988) – an enigmatic and technically perfect book whose first paragraph, about a boy being won in a game of backgammon, is unforgettable. In this book, Greene finally brought school life into his fiction and introduced, very obliquely, memories of the psychoanalyst Kenneth Richmond and his wife Zoë.³²

Greene took three trips to the Soviet Union in 1986 and 1987, where he visited again with Kim Philby. The novelist’s fame in Russia was considerable. At one point Greene met a cosmonaut, B. I. Gretchko, who had spent three months in orbit: ‘He presented me with his marked copy of a Penguin of Our Man in Havana which he had taken with him into space!’ (this page)

Greene maintained through these years a wide range of political contacts in Latin America and a heavy correspondence throughout the world. In December 1989 he was hospitalised with an illness eventually diagnosed as leukaemia. The following summer he bought a flat in Vevey, Switzerland, the country where his daughter, Lucy Caroline, and Martine Cloetta were both living. As his illness advanced, his wits remained sharp, though he suffered some loss of memory. His daughter recalls that he looked on his own death with great curiosity as to what, if anything, lay ahead. It was, for him, another journey without maps. He died on 3 April 1991.

SOURCES AND ORGANISATION

The material available for this selection is vast – one collection alone fills seventeen linear feet of files, and there are others nearly as large. An edition of the complete letters would take several decades to complete and would be valuable for scholars but otherwise forbidding and essentially unreadable. In this volume, I have chosen a substantial group of letters that are engaging to read and that reveal Greene’s personal, literary, religious and political concerns over a period of seventy years. The book is arranged on chronological lines, with chapters divided mainly according to his major works.

With so much material at hand, it has not been necessary to include in this volume Greene’s many letters to the editors of newspapers and magazines – these are already available in an excellent edition by Christopher Hawtree, Yours etc. (1989). Likewise, I have omitted Greene’s letters to the bookseller David Lowe available in Dear David, Dear Graham: A Bibliophilic Correspondence (1989). I have, however, included Greene’s contributions to the important book Why Do I Write?(1948), which had little circulation and now is largely forgotten.

The Graham Greene literary estate has given me complete freedom in preparing this book. As is well known, the Greene archives at Georgetown University were subject to various restrictions. All but one of those have now been lifted. The letters Greene wrote to Yvonne Cloetta, who died in 2001, remain, by her instruction, under an embargo during the lifetime of Jacques Cloetta. Some have found their way into print, but this is a violation of the arrangement made when they were sold. The full publication of those letters will have to wait. Her experiences with Graham Greene are admirably described in her interviews with Marie-François Allain, In Search of a Beginning (2004).

From the 1950s, Greene’s correspondence was so burdensome that he dictated letters onto dictabelts, which were then sent to his secretary, who kept stocks of signed letterhead. Where letters were produced by a secretary listening to tapes, accidental features have limited authority. In this volume, I have retained a minimal style of punctuation but adjusted it where necessary. Some very long paragraphs have been divided. Errors resulting from faulty transcription of the dictabelts are noted where they occur, but otherwise I have corrected obvious errors silently. Some addresses and postscripts have been deleted and, where the source is a carbon copy, the signature is added – both types of emendation occurring silently. I have added all necessary punctuation to telegrams and regularised the presentation of titles of books and articles.

1Travels with My Aunt (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), 10. Unless otherwise indicated, Greene’s works will be cited in the Penguin editions.

2The Heart of the Matter, 26.

3 ‘The Virtue of Disloyalty’, Reflections, ed. Judith Adamson, 269.

4 An observation by the novelist’s son Francis Greene.

5The Heart of the Matter, 175.

6Scotsman (6 March 2004).

7Articles of Faith, 132.

8 Cloetta, 45.

9Travels with My Aunt, 269.

10moments of being: the random recollections of raymond greene (london, 1974), ix.

11A Sort of Life,46.

12 Information from Hilary Rost, Mayo’s daughter (see p. 316).

13A Sort of Life, 65–6.

14A Sort of Life, 92; information from Raymond’s son, Oliver Greene, relying on an account by his mother, Eleanor Greene; see also Mockler, viii and 214.

15 See Amory, 502 and 560; A Sort of Life, 92.

16 For an authoritative description of this illness, see, for example, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th ed. (DSM-IV-TR), which notes, ironically for these purposes, that those who suffer bipolar disorder may write many letters (357). I am grateful to Karl Orend for his observations on bipolar disorder among writers.

17 Letter to Vivienne Dayrell-Browning, December 1925, at the Harry Ransom Center, Austin, Texas.

18Ways of Escape, 28.

19 Marie-Françoise Allain, The Other Man: Conversations with Graham Greene, trans. Guido Waldman (London: The Bodley Head, 1981), 31; hereafter cited as Allain. I am very disappointed that Greene’s letter to Bruce seems not to have survived.

20Journey Without Maps, 19.

21Journey Without Maps, 213.

22Brighton Rock, 246. Few sentences have had such a grip on the modern imagination. For example, it is quoted in the violent soliloquy of President Bartlet in the ‘Two Cathedrals’ episode of The West Wing, a television series influenced by Graham Greene’s fiction.

23Ways of Escape, 46.

24The Power and the Glory, 1945.

25 Information from Amanda Saunders, Louise Dennys and Nicholas Dennys.

26 Greene sometimes wondered if Sitwell had actually made this often-quoted remark. It can be found in a letter of Sitwell’s to Greene now deposited at Georgetown University.

27 Edith Sitwell, letter to David Horner, 1 June 1948, Harry Ransom Center, Austin, Texas.

28 Allain, 15.

29A Sort of Life, 54.

30 Waugh, 779.

31 Letter to Greene, 9 January 1961, Georgetown University.

32 See West, 246–7.

1
THE EARLY YEARS

TO MARION GREENE

In the late spring of 1921, Graham suffered an emotional collapse, and from July he undertook a six-month course of psychoanalysis with Kenneth Richmond at his home in London.¹During his treatment, he took a brief holiday with his aunt Eva – she was going to Lisbon to meet her husband, Edward Greene, who ran a coffee business in Brazil. Graham describes some of the characters on the ship with a skill astonishing in a sixteen-year-old.

R.M.S.P. ‘Avon’ | Sat. Sep. 3. 1921

Dear Mumma,

We are having another glorious day; the Bay of Biscay not fulfilling its reputation. I’ve been having a most energetic day, with deck tennis and bowls etc. and am getting back a sea-side appetite. We’ve got a most amusing table. There’s a large fat profiteer, who had the title, probably nominal, of captain during the war. He has practically no chin, the fat of his neck [?] drowning it in one colossal ‘bulge’. He has cultivated a critical twist downwards to his mouth, and snorts at every dish. Having ordered three bottles of champagne at dinner, he snorted and ‘peeved’ for ten minutes until at last the waiter realised his dreadful mistake. He’d brought him champagne – but, in ice! No good! Besides the admiring chorus of his Spanish wife, he has an attendant satellite in the person of a little, old gentleman who does nothing but flatter him. We have also a very thin, silent dour Scotchman, who interjects a meaningless joke about every quarter of an hour.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 696