Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“I was really only trying to be of service.”

Paul found himself suddenly touched. He was always sensitive to the hidden note in a voice, and in Rowden’s last sentence there had been such a note, of humility, almost of self-abasement. But after being touched, he was disturbed; the note came too uneasily from a man like Rowden and after such an argument. He knew then that what was happening between him and Rowden was a repetition of what had happened before in his life—the progress of a relationship to the point of chafing, as if there were something fundamentally raw in his personality that made friendship difficult and hostility almost welcome as a relief. He felt ashamed of his rudeness, yet at the same time he slightly resented having been out-generalled by Rowden’s better manners, and he silently upbraided himself in words he remembered because he had once spoken them aloud, after a similar incident with someone else: “I shouldn’t ever argue about art with people who aren’t artists —I really ought to keep off the subject—I get a chip on my shoulder, I don’t know why, I guess it’s the way I’m made.”

“Might I read the article before you send it off?” Rowden was asking.

“Why, sure, but it won’t be much in your line.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m interested… You see, I’ve done a little writing myself from time to time—though not commercially.” He went to one of the library shelves and took down a small morocco-bound volume; Paul was moving to inspect it when Rowden hastily put it back. “No, no—not now. There’s another copy on the shelf by your bed—I thought you might have noticed it.”

Paul said he hadn’t. “If I’d known it was something of yours… but I haven’t done much reading in bed while I’ve been here, I’ve been too sleepy… I certainly won’t miss it tonight, though.” And then, with an effect of release from stress, he remembered the copy of Martin Chuzzlewit he had borrowed from Carey. He hadn’t had time to look at that either.

Rowden’s uneasiness had now reached a point of evident urgency. “Please don’t take any trouble about it. I’ve inscribed the book to you—I would be happy for you to have it. Just a few verses I wrote years ago —trivial, one reviewer said—the only reviewer, in fact. Another word he used was ‘unpleasant’.”

“Unpleasant? How did he make that out?”

“Perhaps he was a little prim. Today that kind of attitude is rare among sophisticated people—almost as rare as scholarship. Some of the verses, by the way, are in Latin and Greek.”

“Without a translation? Not much good to me, then. I know Latin slightly, but no Greek at all.”

“They have their uses, the classical tongues. One can sometimes put thoughts into them that are—shall I say?—appropriately hidden from the casual reader. Gibbon, no doubt, did the same with his footnotes… You’ve read Gibbon? You should… a great stylist… but to get back to my own small foray into the literary arena—you’ve no idea how completely it was ignored—even by the few—the very few—who might have been expected to catch the mood of it.”

“Classical scholars, you mean?”

“Not entirely… But I bear no grudge. The book’s utter failure may have been merited. Certainly that one word ‘unpleasant’ was the only ripple it stirred.”

Paul was uncomfortable again; he felt that Rowden was trying to make some tortuous amends, to heal a rift that had developed between them, yet that in so doing he might soon be creating other stresses even less endurable.

Rowden went on: “I suppose you’re surprised I should confess all this?”

Paul laughed nervously. “No, because I think you’re as proud of it in your own way as other people are proud of success.”

“You’re very shrewd. I—I admire your intelligence, Paul—in fact, I hope you’ll always remember me as one of your earliest admirers.”

“Well, thanks. I appreciate that. I’m sure you’re a pretty good judge. I’ll bet all those Picassos and Cézannes you have were bought at the beginning, before the prices went up.”

“Some of them were, though I don’t brag about it.”

“I know you don’t. I just guessed. And I also guess if you admire me it means I’ll go sky-high too one of these days.”

“I think you will, and you’ll enjoy it, because you worship success far more than you should… But tell me, Paul, what IS the barrier between us? I think there must be one—you seem unwilling to become as close a friend to me as I could be to you. To take a trivial example—absurdly trivial—I call you Paul, my own name’s Michael, but you’ve never called me that… it’s true you don’t call me Mister Rowden—you never give me any name at all, I’ve noticed. I think it symbolizes that barrier… And another thing—also absurdly trivial. You never told me you’d seen that little actress, had MET her, I mean—the child who was the leprechaun in that rather dreadful play.”

“Yes, I did meet her one afternoon. We took a walk in Phoenix Park. How did you know?”

“Pure chance—Roberts happened to be driving through and saw you together. It’s of no importance at all—except that it seems strange you didn’t mention it.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in her.”

“I’m not. But YOU evidently were… Are you still?”

Paul answered musingly: “Yes, in a sort of way. She’s my kind if I had a kind.”

“You mean if you were to have a girl?”

“No… not exactly.”

“Then I don’t quite know what you mean by saying she’s your kind if you had a kind.”

“I don’t quite know either… And she’s not a child, by the way. She’s seventeen.”

There followed a considerable silence which was broken (and Paul was glad of it) by the entrance of Briggs, carrying an envelope on a tray. “For you, Mr. Saffron. It just came.”

Paul opened it: a cablegram from Boston as follows:

“PLEASE DROP IRISH ASSIGNMENT AND PROCEED LONDON AND ROME IMMEDIATELY STOP WOULD LIKE YOU TO INTERVIEW ITALIAN POLITICIAN NAMED BENITO MUSSOLINI SAID TO BE COMING MAN STOP AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS BY CABLE AT LONDON OFFICE (SIGNED) MERRYWEATHER.”

Paul read this with utter astonishment, then re-read it while a sharp pinpoint of relief transfixed him.

“Not bad news, I hope?” Rowden was saying.

Paul called his thoughts to order. Now that he knew he could leave Venton League so soon and with such a valid excuse he felt at ease; the pinpoint of relief expanded inside him rapidly. “Did I look as if it was bad news? I’m sorry… It’ll seem pretty exciting when I’ve got over the first shock… I expect the real reason I never called you Michael is the difference in our ages, but I will do from now on.” He smiled and passed the cable over. “I never heard of this Mussolini fellow—he’s probably a tough nut to crack, and since I don’t speak Italian… It beats me why I’m picked on for this kind of job. Just because I once had luck with Lloyd George is no guarantee I’ll manage it again.”

Rowden handed back the cable. “IMMEDIATELY too.”

“That’s what it says. A hell of a life, isn’t it?”

“And just when you were beginning to feel at home here.”

“Yes… Too bad.”

“I suppose—you don’t think—you could ignore the instructions—and stay on a while?”

“WHAT?” Paul laughed. “Ignore an editor? That’s not exactly the way to keep one’s job.”

“But you said you didn’t like the job—that it was only a stopgap till you found a new play to direct?”

Suddenly Paul wondered if Rowden would give or lend him a few thousand pounds to stage a play, say a Shakespeare production, in London or New York. Perhaps Rowden would enjoy a flutter of that kind, with all the patronly contacts it would involve. Certainly Paul had no qualms about taking money from a rich man and probably losing most of it. The idea tempted, fascinated, then grew suddenly sour; and he heard his own voice, speaking as much to himself as to Rowden: “You bet I’d give up journalism if I could make a living in the theatre, but till I can—and I WILL—I have to do what the boss says.”