Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“I see. The boss. This man Merryweather.”

“Well, he pays me for writing the stuff.”

Rowden nodded, lit a cigarette, and pressed the bell. “Then we must tell Briggs about your packing. You haven’t time to catch the night boat, but there’s another sails at eight in the morning. Leave here about seven— Roberts will drive you to Kingstown. If you’ll excuse me, I won’t get up to see you off, but we must certainly drink a good wine this evening—to celebrate your Roman holiday. Not champagne, I think—that is for cocottes… but I have a rather special Burgundy…”

Dinner was gay; Rowden could be the most gracious of hosts, and Paul liked him almost feverishly now they were so soon to separate. Naturally much of their talk was of Rome and Italy. “I wish I were coming with you, Paul. To be with anyone when he first crosses the Alps, but you especially—a young American—tabula rasa… Who IS this man Merryweather? An editor, yes, I know that—but what sort of person—is he simpatico—does he have any idea of his power—to whisk you about the world—London—Dublin—Rome—to offer you, at the impressionable age, such unrivalled chances of experience— some lifetime friendship, maybe, or fate itself, in one guise or another? Or is it merely that he wants those little articles that you write with such deplorable skill?”

“Probably only that.”

“How unimaginative!”

“Well, he knows what he wants and he doesn’t care what _I_ want. I once asked him if I could do the drama criticism, but he said no—I knew too much, he was afraid I’d be highbrow.”

“Surely a strain, though, as it becomes harder for you to find subjects you know nothing about. Or perhaps it doesn’t?”

“That’s where travel helps. Widens the circle of ignorance. The unsophisticated viewpoint on Rome—I’ll get it, you see.”

“Rome might even make you FEEL unsophisticated. It has a unique society —or rather two societies, one based on the aristocracy and the other on the Vatican. I must give you some introductions.”

“Thanks—I’ll be the Iowa farm-boy amongst all that—it’ll suit Merryweather fine. Because in spite of Emily Post, America loves the guy who isn’t sure what knife and fork to use.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I try not to be TOO sure. And where finger-bowls are concerned I guard all my innocence. Haven’t you caught me at it?”

“No, but it fits well with your somewhat complex behaviour. You’re an exceedingly complex character—did you ever realize that? A certain charm, when you care to use it, hides your arrogance, and your arrogance hides your humility, and your humility hides… what, I wonder?… I don’t know, and nor do you—you can’t know—YET. Meanwhile if I can help you… I shall write a few letters you can take to Italy—Briggs will give them to you before you leave in the morning. They’ll be to quite influential people—but Mussolini isn’t among them, unfortunately. He’s something new in the Roman firmament since my day.”

“You know Rome well?”

“As a youth I lived there several years—-till soon after my father died. I was being trained for the priesthood.”

“And then you found you had no vocation?”

“To be less dramatic I found I had a brewery. My father had left it to my elder brother, but when HE died suddenly I got it… Of course you’re quite right—I couldn’t have had any real vocation.”

Paul thought this over and then said: “I suppose what you did proved it. And yet, isn’t it a bit too neat—that everything’s all for the best, whether you give up something or not? I’m lucky—I know what I’ll never give up, and anyone can put me to any test they like.” He checked himself, realizing that there was in all this an implied condemnation of the other, anxious also to avoid an exchange of confessions. He had a curious feeling that he and Rowden could understand each other if they tried, but he did not want to try; on the contrary, he felt embarrassed and evasive, as if he were discovered without a passport at a frontier. He said: “I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve been talking a lot of nonsense… Of course I’ll be glad to meet your friends, it’s very kind of you to suggest it, though I don’t know how long I’ll be in Rome. It all depends on Mussolini—”

“May I give you a word of advice?” Rowden leaned towards Paul across the table. “Just this. Let the big man talk. Don’t tell him what a fool he is if you can possibly avoid it.”

Paul was almost ready to resent this as a second return to an issue that had already been terminated, but with relief inside him now rising to enthusiasm, he found it possible to laugh heartily.

Rowden laughed too. “You know, Paul, I’ve been searching for a word to describe what’s the real trouble with you, and I think I’ve got it… you’re not WORLD-BROKEN.”

“WORLD-BROKEN? What’s that?… On the analogy of—”

“That’s it. You don’t care what you do—or where. And to continue the metaphor, you’ll end up shivering in an outdoor kennel instead of basking on the hearthrug in front of a warm fire.”

“Okay, Michael… So long as I have even the kennel, to hell with the hearthrug.” (It was the first and last time he ever called him Michael.)

“You’re probably still young enough to be able to make the choice. How lucky you are, indeed!”

Paul said his goodbyes in the corridor outside their bedrooms, and Rowden left him with a cordial invitation to visit Venton League again. Paul promised he would, though with a premonition that it would never happen. There was so much in the man that he liked and admired, and much too that he felt he could make use of—not in any sense of exploitation, but rather as part of the process of self-enlightenment. He wondered whether Rowden guessed that Venton League was the first house he had ever visited where dressing for dinner was routine and not show-off, where vintage wines were drunk ritually but not snobbishly, and where servants shined shoes and packed for guests. His own packed bag faced him now, and on top, where Briggs must have placed it as a reminder, lay the Martin Chuzzlewit from the city library. With that as a goad, the thought of Carey leapt at him unleashed and with extra strength because all day, it seemed, he had been holding it at bay. Now that he was alone the enormity of having cancelled the planned excursion sank in his mind with an effect of sickness. He contemplated the possibility that he would never see her again, that Rowden and Merryweather had between them set an end to the relationship, the one with a touch of forethought and the other unwittingly, while he himself had weakly acquiesced.

He knew he could not sleep with such thoughts in his mind. He paced the room, staring at the furniture, the pictures, anything that might stir some feeble counter-interest. Suddenly he saw the volume of Rowden’s verses on his bedside shelf, hard to miss if he had ever before given the books any attention. He sat on the edge of the bed and read a few pages. The title was “Leaves”, it had been privately printed, and there was no publication date. He soon decided that Rowden’s low estimate of its worth (however insincere) was the plain truth. It was interesting, though, as a clue to the man’s tastes and personality. Somewhat in the style of Swinburne or Baudelaire —perhaps written as long ago as that, when their kind of writing was in vogue. Paul re-read a few of the poems and tried to decide on an adjective for them. ‘Unpleasant’ would never have entered his mind had not Rowden laid such stress on the word; as it was, with an idea thus implanted, Paul diagnosed here and there a sort of strained morbidity, perhaps considered decadent at one time, but nowadays merely outmoded. Of course the items in Latin and Greek were beyond him. Having skimmed the book through (it was very short) he put it aside and forgot it was his own property, Rowden having inscribed it for him; so that the next day, after he had gone, its presence still at the bedside conveyed a far more crushing verdict than any he had formulated. Though he never knew this, it was the reason why Rowden did not reply to several letters Paul sent him during the next few weeks; and, indeed, it was the end of their fleeting contact.