Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“It’s my turn again—isn’t that fair? Besides, it’s good for both of us. Wouldn’t you like us to get to know each other really well?”

“Of course I would.” He signalled the waiter and asked for more coffee. She said relaxingly: “Oh, I’m so glad you did that. When you looked at your watch I thought you were going to say it was time we were leaving.”

“It is, but I don’t mind.”

“Nor do I, though I haven’t an idea how to get to Putney if I miss the last train.”

“We’ll take a taxi.”

“WE? But you needn’t bother to—”

“I certainly wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone at this time of night —I don’t know how far the place is or what it’s like—it’s absurd for you to think of—”

“All right—all right—I give in.”

The waiter refilled their cups. She said after a little silence: “I’m finding you unbelievable too. When do you have to go back to America?”

“When the cash runs out. Not that I have any there except what I earn, so perhaps I could starve in London just as well… I’m kidding—I know I won’t starve. I can always write something. I’m not a bad writer. Not REALLY good, but not bad either.”

“I wish you were going to direct a play here.”

“I wish I were going to direct a play ANYWHERE.”

“But here especially, then you could give ME a chance.”

She had said that jauntily, so he answered in the same vein: “And you’re quite positive I’d do that?”

“Yes, because you said just now you were curious about me, and I think you’d be curious to find out what you could make of me.”

“I KNOW what I could make of you.” The boast startled him by its promptness, then appalled him a little when he gave it a second thought.

“I half believe you, Paul.”

He said, continuing the joke: “And the other half I resent. Still it’s good to know you’d even be willing to stay in London if you were offered enough inducement—say Candida or Desdemona, with your name in lights and a thumping salary.”

“You don’t really think I’m as arrogant as you, do you?”

“So you think _I_ am?”

“You have to be. You couldn’t make anything of me—or even of yourself—unless you were… See, I do understand you a bit. Will the cash last a week—or ten days perhaps?”

“Could YOU stay too? How soon will your business with the lawyer be finished?”

“Darling, there isn’t any lawyer. I didn’t really have to come to London at all. Now you know.”

He felt an unclassifiable emotion for a second, sharp and intense; then he diagnosed it as sheer pleasure and took extra pleasure in so doing. “So you wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see you? That makes us quits. But why invent an excuse?”

“In case you felt burdened with responsibility for bringing me here. In case you’d changed your mind about me again. You do change your mind. First you like me—then you think because I’m a girl you can’t like me. Or else you don’t want to dare to like me, or don’t dare to want to like me, or something. So I thought if that were to happen you might feel better if I had another reason for coming.”

He said seriously: “That was very considerate of you.”

Because in a way he knew it was, and he was impressed; he was also aware that their whole conversation since meeting had been a succession of moods on both sides, never clashing but never identical, as if they were both breathlessly sparring for position in some game that had as yet scarcely begun and might turn out to be not entirely a game.

He added: “But you’ve told me now. You’ve burned your boats. Or burned mine. Which is it?”

“I don’t know. But I promise you this—if you do change your mind again I’ll go back to Dublin without any fuss.”

“That’s a threat, not a promise. And all this about changing my mind —I’m not so fickle—it’s only that I’m a bit scared when I remember other times I’ve tried…” What he really meant but would not exactly say, was that his few previous affairs had disappointed him as aesthetic experiences while at the same time they had satisfied him as biological demonstrations. “And that’s why… with you… the closer I get to knowing you the more I like you, and therefore the more… the more I want to take care not to have anything spoil the relationship. Like betting on the same number—the oftener you win, the more amazing it is, and the more nervous you get about doubling the stakes.” He stirred restlessly, then forced a laugh. “Far too subtle, all this. The really worst fate for any human relationship is to be analysed to death.”

“Paul, perhaps the mistake you made was to try too hard—those other times.”

“I didn’t mean TRY in the sense of MAKE AN EFFORT. I meant TRY like —like SAMPLING something.”

“Oh, I see. To DISCOVER how you felt?”

“Yes. An experiment that wasn’t too successful. But with you I almost know how I feel.”

“In advance? Without the—the sampling?”

“That’s how it seems. Remember the Oscar Wilde remark—about the spire of a cathedral? It’s THAT kind of moment for me now—meeting you like this… here. It’s—it’s superb. In fact the real danger is if I were to develop one of those headstrong passions—I never have before, but—”

“Oh, darling—for ME? If only you would.”

“You—WISH—that?”

“It would be fun. Maybe that’s what you never had before—fun. And I’m quite enough in love with you—I dare say you guessed— “

“You—WHAT? Carey, you’re joking—”

“I’m serious too. Did you never guess how _I_ felt?”

“I—I wondered—sometimes—if—if such a thing were possible.”

She touched his arm across the table. “Oh, Paul… don’t… don’t be so humble.” Her eyes brimmed over. “I expect it’s the first time anyone ever said that to you—and a few minutes ago I was calling you arrogant. But where’s the danger? I don’t see any. Because I’m too young?”

“No, not exactly—though that’s a reason why it would be specially unfair to you if it didn’t work out.”

“But it might. At least it MIGHT.”

“It didn’t between you and that actor.”

“I told you why that was.”

“I know, and an excellent reason, as I said.”

“But I don’t think it could apply to us—to you.”

“Oh, and why not? Why are you so sure I wouldn’t want what he wanted?”

“Paul, don’t pounce on me like that—of course I’m not sure at all —”

“Then why couldn’t it apply to me?”

“Only because of my answer if you did ask. I’m different now—not only a year older… but—well, I told you—I’m in love with you enough.”

He was so touched he felt shocked, as by the revelation of some hitherto unsuspected compound of guilt and innocence inside himself. He muttered: “Carey, what the hell are we talking about? Let’s get the bill.”

They didn’t go to Putney, but to a hotel in South Kensington. On a very few previous occasions when Paul had embarked on an adventure like this, the moment when he first knew there would be no refusal had been one of dismay, even dejection, as if his sufficient pleasure had been in the mere pursuit of an uncertainty. But now there was no dismay, and its absence would alone have made the experience unique. There was, however, between Carey and himself a more positive novelty, and this he discovered gradually and with delight; it was a tenderness that flowed over the raw edges of rapture and gave to all functioning an aspect of inevitability. Till then he had sometimes thought that if all forms of sexual behaviour could only be energized artistically in terms of theatre or ballet, then his problem would be solved, since directorially he could be the spectator or participant in any proportion he chose, and nobody would question or deny his credit. But now, with Carey, the problem was non-existent; and with this perfect outcome the quality that had attracted him first of all in her voice was able to entrance over the whole range of sensibility. It was as if, he told himself at the time and later told her, it was as if her body had BRAINS. Naturally from him this was the supreme tribute, causing him to add another to his short list of ambitions: it was to marry her.