Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

Paul froze instantly, became glum, and soon got up to go. The fact that it was Mona’s flat did not prevent him from regarding her as a complete intruder. Carey took him downstairs. They said nothing till they were in the hallway and could see out into the street. The rain had stopped and a watery sunlight glinted on the wet pavements. They were both aware of things unsaid that might never be said on any other occasion. She touched his arm and whispered: “Oh, Paul, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, if I was rude, but I was just getting in a mood to talk —I mean, REALLY talk.”

“I know.”

“I wonder if you do know.”

She made no answer to that, but presently said: “We can meet again. Do you like the country—I mean, getting out of the city—mountains —scenery?”

He didn’t, but he rallied himself to give a grudging assent.

“We might go to Glendalough, if you have a day to spare, or even half a day. I could borrow Mona’s car—it’s terribly old and shabby, but it runs. There’s the lake and the famous Round Tower—might be something else for one of your articles.”

“Oh, damn the articles. I’d like to go, though, but when?”

“Yes, I know how busy you are—”

“Sunday’s your best day, isn’t it? What about this Sunday?”

“Tomorrow? Again tomorrow? Oh yes, if I can get the car. Do you mind if it rains? It probably will… this kind of weather… oh, it doesn’t matter, does it? Would ten o’clock be too early to start? I could pick you up where you’re staying…”

“Venton League? You know where that is?”

“Of course—everyone knows Mr. Rowden’s house. It’s less than a mile from where I live, and directly on our way… Tomorrow, then.”

But they never did go to Glendalough. Late that evening, when he mentioned the planned excursion, Rowden said suavely: “But, my dear Paul, aren’t you forgetting the party we had planned? A. E.‘s coming, and even Yeats promised —besides the Abbey crowd…”

Paul had forgotten, but recovered himself enough, he hoped, to conceal the fact. “I know—I’m looking forward to it immensely, but if I start early I’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

“It happens to be a lunch party.”

“LUNCH? I thought you said—”

“Several of them couldn’t come in the evening—Yeats in particular —and as I was anxious to have you meet our leading lights—good material for a journalist apart from the fun you might have.”

Paul felt a sharp concern, realizing it wasn’t Rowden’s fault, yet unwilling to accept at any price the cancellation of his appointment with Carey.

“And you can go to Glendalough some other time,” Rowden was continuing. “I won’t accompany you, I’ve been there so often, the place bores me a little. But YOU should go—it’s worth seeing, touristically. You can have Roberts for the day.” And after a pause: “Or had you other plans? Perhaps you’d arranged to go with someone else?”

“Well yes, I had, to be frank…”

“Why don’t you, then, by all means, take this—this someone else? Roberts can drive you both—any time except tomorrow.”

It seemed reasonable, even generous, though the thought of driving in state with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel of Rowden’s Rolls-Royce was completely unenticing. Besides, how did he know he would stay at Venton League as long as the following Sunday, and of course Sunday was her best day. He already wished he had been truculent enough to say at the outset: I’m sorry, I must go to Glendalough tomorrow, party or no party. But Rowden’s conciliatoriness had outmanoeuvred him, so that now he could only mutter: “Okay, I suppose that’s what it’ll have to be.” Deprived of power to be adamant, he could only take refuge in ungraciousness.

It was too late to communicate with Carey that night to explain matters; she would already have left the theatre and he did not know her home address. He would have to tell her when she arrived at Venton League in the morning, and though he guessed that she too would be disappointed, somehow that bothered him less than the thought of any possible meeting between her and Rowden, or even the chance that Rowden might see her driving up to the house in that ‘terribly old and shabby’ car. A half-realized awkwardness in the whole situation kept him awake to wonder how he could circumvent it; and in the morning, just before ten, he walked down the drive and past the lodge gates with the idea of intercepting her in the roadway outside. She was punctual, and immediately he told her what had happened. Because he was so chagrined he was rather testy and offhand, making almost no effort to seem blameless. She was not reproachful, assuring him that she fully understood and that naturally it would be impossible for him to miss the lunch party. They did not talk long, and after separating (with no plans for any future meeting) he began to wonder whether she had been too disappointed or not disappointed enough. Whichever it was had put him in no mood for meeting celebrities.

They came, a little later, some by tram, others in cars far more ancient and battered than the one Carey had been driving. Dublin in those days was like that. And Paul, unhappy at first, was soon swept into a livelier mood by such exciting contacts; once or twice during the lunch he felt a stab of regret that he was not where he had planned to be, but he killed it by self-derision—was it possible that he preferred naďve chatter with a girl of seventeen to an exchange of ideas with some of the brightest minds in such a captivating country? If so, then what on earth had happened to him? And all the discomforts of a long drive in a rattle-trap car with nothing but scenery at the end of it? For Paul did not enjoy travel for its own sake; art he loved, and a long way off and by no means next to it, nature. Moreover, he shared Dr. Johnson’s attitude towards mountains, partly because of an aversion to most physical effort; even the mountain view from Phoenix Park had impressed him only because he had seen it momentarily as a backdrop.

All this while he was listening to a very eminent poet recite some lines from one of his poems. Candidly, Paul did not think he recited very well, but since it was actually himself reciting himself, what more could one ask? And then the almost equally famous Mr. So-and-so, who was opposite Paul, engaged him in talk that soon veered to a subject that was one of the few on which Paul had no ideas of his own—that of co-operative creameries, and for the next ten minutes there ensued a fascinating monologue to which Paul listened in growing wonderment coupled with the ghost of a feeling that he was missing something more interesting elsewhere. But presently Rowden suggested an adjournment to the garden, and once out there it was possible to escape from co-operative creameries and switch to another group who were discussing the theatre.

Paul was capricious in conversation; his rare silences might indicate that he was either bored or entranced; but so might his talkativeness, for if he were bored he would take quick refuge in the pleasure of his own voice, and if entranced, there would be generated in him sooner or later a terrific desire to entrance the entrancer. This latter occurred during the talk in the garden when Paul, having silently worshipped a well-known literary critic during the latter’s eloquent opinion about the proper way to produce the plays of Synge, suddenly interrupted with an opinion of his own. It began modestly, soon acquired an eloquence fully equal to the critic’s, and grew to a quite brilliant exegesis that attracted several listeners from another group.

And in the thick of it, without a nod or a word, the well-known literary critic walked off.