Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

And now, four years later, he entered Euston Station, happily remembering how miserable he had been.

As soon as he saw her he knew that their relationship was on a different level, established at the house in Terenure that night, but since fortified by time, absence, and—who could say?—perhaps by a telepathy of awareness between them. She rushed up to him in the station hall and laughed her first words above the din of porters and luggage trucks. “Oh, Paul—Paul—I never dreamed I’d see you so soon—I didn’t know how to answer your letters at first—they sounded so cold, as if you didn’t want to see me again, but then when you said you did— “

“Carey, I did—I do—I’ve missed you—in such an extraordinary way. Carey, you look unbelievable… Had dinner? No? Nor have I. This aunt of yours in Putney can wait… Where’s your luggage? Just the one bag? We’ll take it along, then.”

They drove to a small French restaurant in Lisle Street that he knew of —quiet, informal, expensive. He had economized by staying at the Ellesmere, but now he would be extravagant—he would ask Merryweather for more work, would write a hundred articles, would interview Lenin, Gandhi, Bernard Shaw, Suzanne Lenglen—the whole who’s who of the world. That was his mood as he consulted the menu. Normally he was no gourmet, and his appetite was voracious rather than fastidious. But now he suddenly hankered after delicacies—terrapin, caviare, frogs’ legs—careless of how they mixed or what they cost; and it was she, in tune with his emotion yet thinking of his pocket-book, who talked him out of the wilder whims. Eventually he compromised on smoked salmon, poulet en casserole, and a bottle of Heidsieck—forgetting that Rowden had called champagne a wine for cocottes. And meanwhile they talked almost antiphonally, as if their respective concerns matched each other—his failure in Rome, her own bereavement in Dublin; the Magic Flute in Paris, a new play at the Abbey in which (sure enough) she had been offered the fourteen-year-old part. But she had had to turn it down in order to come to London. She didn’t care— any more than he cared about Merryweather’s disappointment. It was one of the few times in his life he had found anyone who could talk as much as he did without seeming to interrupt or to wait anxiously for chances to butt in; a musical simile again occurred to him—that they were somehow improvising on a keyboard of speech while their underlying thoughts made deeper harmony in what was left unsaid.

Over the coffee he remembered that aunt of hers. “Carey, hadn’t you better telephone you’ll be late?”

“She doesn’t know I’m coming at all till I do telephone.”

“She doesn’t? Oh, fine. Then we don’t have to worry, except that if the old lady goes to bed early—”

“She’s not old. She’s not much older than I am.”

“No?”

“My mother was the eldest of fifteen and Sylvia’s the youngest. She’s married to a landscape gardener. They have three children and I don’t know how many dogs—they breed them—wire-haired terriers all over the place. It’s good for children to live in an atmosphere like that. They’ve won any amount of prizes. The dogs, I mean.” She made a grimace. “All this must be so enthralling to you. Now tell me things like that about your own life—I wish you would—I hardly know anything about you.”

“You know all that matters.”

“Ah, yes, but tell me something that doesn’t matter for a change.”

“You mean I’m too serious? I talk too much about my ambitions?”

“Darling, no—how could you—to me? Our ambitions are so alike—”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Acting’s a completely different function from —”

“I dare say it is.” She began to giggle. “I wouldn’t argue about it for the world. Oh, Paul, you’ve got to humour me—I want some personal thing—about your childhood, schooldays, family—any little detail—”

He looked at her, stern at first because of the note of raillery in her voice, as if she were daring to be amused by him. Then he softened, as one who can indulge a whim out of some deeper geniality of the spirit; he didn’t really mind her laughing at him; his tolerance of that had been set at their first meeting.

He said: “Not much to tell, Carey. I was born in Reedsville, Iowa. Small town. I went to grade school there. Then to high school and Iowa State University. My father was a farmer. He came from Pennsylvania— Pennsylvania-Dutch stock—Germany before that. My mother’s still living—she’s in Milwaukee with my brother and his wife. That’s about all there is. I have no other brothers and sisters.”

“And no girl? You don’t have a girl in America? I don’t know why I never asked that before.”

“I don’t have a girl anywhere.”

“You say that either forlornly or proudly. Which is it?”

“Neither. Just a fact. To tell you the truth, I—I don’t seem to score very heavily with the other sex—as a rule—except as friends. At least I haven’t so far.”

“So far,” she echoed. “That’s not very far.”

He went on hurriedly: “How about you? I expect you’re popular enough with all kinds of men.”

“Some kinds. But I don’t know many—even as friends. You can’t, when you’re only free one evening a week. They won’t put up with that.”

“Nonsense! If a man were to fall in love with you—hasn’t that ever happened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did he object?”

“OBJECT?”

“To your work—to seeing you only one night a week?”

“He saw me every night. He was acting with me.”

“Oh, then it was simple for you—”

“No—it didn’t work.”

“Why not? Didn’t you love him?”

“I thought I did at the time. Perhaps I did. But it wasn’t a success.”

He asked sharply: “Why not? What happened? Which of you broke it off?”

“Oh, Paul…” She began to laugh. “You suddenly get so—so pouncy —like a prosecuting counsel—as if I were on trial— “

“Well, I’m curious. You were curious about me—you asked for something personal. What went wrong in this affair you had with this man?”

“It wasn’t an affair—at least not THAT kind of affair. Perhaps that’s why it went wrong. He wanted it to be.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why? Moral reasons?”

“Partly. Maybe.”

“Because you’re a Catholic?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“The way you’re cross-examining me I don’t feel too sure of anything. You’d make a terrifying lawyer.”

“I’m sorry. And I think you were quite right to refuse—at seventeen… Though it’s none of my business.”

“It isn’t really, is it? And I was sixteen then… But it’s my fault, I admit—I began all this questioning…”

“No, MY fault—I’m much too inquisitive. SIXTEEN! Good God!”

“Now tell me if YOU’VE ever been in love.”

“ME? Why… Why, yes… hundreds of times.”

“That’s like saying never.”

“Carey, I assure you, I fall for every clever or beautiful woman I meet —you mustn’t think because I’m not a Casanova that there’s anything about me that’s—that’s AGAINST women. It’s just that—well, I suppose I’m not quite the type for these headlong passions, though no doubt one of them will come along some day and bowl me over completely— “

“How convenient to have it come along like that! Nothing for you to do but just wait.”

“No, that’s not my attitude, because—really—I should like —very much—to—to…” He began to colour, then looked at his watch and laughed. “NOW who’s cross-examining?”