Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“But surely the man has a right to potter about his own theatre.”

“No, not if he gets in the way. When he signed me to direct he delegated his rights—it’s like a ship that carries the president of the line —the captain still gives the orders even though the other man owns the outfit.”

“But I’m sure a tactful captain tries to say a few polite words to the president now and again.”

“I’ve never been impolite. I’m just too busy to go to his parties and sit up half the night listening to pseudo-artistic claptrap.”

“I thought you enjoyed his parties. That first night we went to his house and stayed for hours—you were so enthusiastic.”

“Only because I knew I’d talked him into engaging me. I thought most of his ideas were half-baked, but it was worth while to let him believe I was impressed.”

“You know, Paul, you scare me sometimes—you’re so utterly shameless. Don’t you ever feel that Harry’s giving you a big chance?”

“I’m giving him a chance too. So far he’s done nothing but lose money and fool around, but now he’s due for a huge success and his precious little flea-bitten theatre will become famous all over London.”

“You really are quite sure of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

“Darling, of course.”

He went on, scrutinizing her: “I think I can read your mind. You’re wondering if I was equally sure in New York. You WERE wondering that, weren’t you?” (It was true, she had been.) “Well, the answer’s yes. And the plays flopped. I don’t admit that to others, but you probably guessed anyhow… And what does it prove? That I can be wrong? Does that NEED proving?… All I can say is, count on me this time. Carey, it’s terribly important that you should feel about it as I do. You HAVE to.”

She smiled and told him she did. She knew by now the rich support he took from her, and her satisfaction in that was almost enough to create the faith he asked for.

With her own performance in the play he was both patient and severe. After the first week she said unhappily: “You don’t seem to like anything I do. I’d hate to spoil the play, and from the way you criticize—”

“I criticize the others just as much, only you don’t hear me. I never criticize anyone in the presence of anyone else.”

She was a little relieved by that, but still troubled. “I can’t help wondering, though, if I’m equal to a part like this. Perhaps some actress with more experience in Shakespeare—”

“Carey, you’re not losing your ambition! You wouldn’t give up NOW?”

“Not if I can satisfy you, but if I can’t—I couldn’t bear not to —and there’ll be some other play later on—something easier maybe—”

“Oh?” He assumed the attitude which she called his ‘pounce’. “And what makes you think you’d be any better in anything easier? I suppose you’re hankering after some frothy little comedy where you have to light cigarettes and mix cocktails all the time! Don’t kid yourself—you’d be just as bad in that if you’re bad at all. But you AREN’T bad, and you’re going to be good—you’re going to be VERY good! Don’t you believe in yourself yet?”

There was no answering this sort of thing. Logical or not, it had rallying power. But she could not help marking the contrast between his first cautious opinion of her in Dublin and his unbounded optimism now; surely the change which that represented was in HIM far more than could possibly have happened in the quality of her acting. Yet she felt also that there was no conscious insincerity in his enthusiasm—that his own mind, under the hypnosis of the task, swung continually between the same poles—never satisfied, always confident. But what really tickled her was the way this attitude extended itself even to the play and the author; in Dublin he had often criticized Shakespeare, but now, as the rehearsals progressed, Shakespeare became faultless and Othello the greatest play ever written in the history of the world.

One afternoon she met Foy in the street near his house. He asked her to come inside and see some designs for scenery that had just arrived. “Oppeler should have sent them to Paul, not to me—try to convince your husband this is no plot against his authority.” His eyes twinkled as he said this, and she liked him for sharing with her an understanding of Paul that the latter would have vehemently denied.

The designs she thought excellent, though she knew she was no judge. They had been suggested in a general way by Paul himself after long sessions with the artist; Foy’s willingness to spend freely and his almost naďve pleasure in giving Paul anything he wanted, touched her as it always did. She stayed for a while, enjoying conversation that was comfortable and, for a change, unexciting. Then, with the designs under her arm, she returned to the flat.

Paul was sitting hunched over the living-room fire. He had taken a chill and had been dosing himself unsatisfactorily since early morning. He was inclined to baby himself over such things, and she thought there were signs in his posture, as if he had assumed it too quickly on hearing her footsteps on the stairs. She was beginning to find out these things about him now, and to love him all the more generously for most of them. He was a bad actor, as he often said; indeed, he said it so often that she wondered if he hoped that some day he would be contradicted. But she was willing enough to humour him, to fit herself into whatever drama could compensate for him for a bad cold. She put her arm affectionately round his shoulder and felt him pretend (she was sure it was that) to be startled. “Hello, darling—still feeling rotten?… Look at these—Harry sent them over.” She gave him the folio of drawings, watching his face for a verdict. To her surprise he glanced at only a few of them, casually, then let them slip to the floor.

“Don’t you think they’re good? Or would you rather not bother about them now? They can wait… How about some coffee, or a stiff drink, maybe?”

He said sharply, looking up: “Why did Oppeler send them to Foy?”

“I don’t know, and neither does Harry—he particularly asked me to tell you it wasn’t his fault they didn’t come direct to you. They should have, he knows it.”

“That relieves my mind enormously.”

“Oh, now, Paul, don’t talk like that. How could he help it if the artist made a mistake?”

“These drawings seem to be another of his mistakes.”

“You really haven’t looked at them yet.”

“Enough to know that I’d rather do without scenery altogether. He’ll have to try again.”

“They’re as bad as that?”

“How bad do they have to be? If they aren’t good enough, they’re bad.”

“Are you sure Oppeler’s the right man? Perhaps someone else—”

“Of course he’s the right man. He’s the best set designer in London if he ever gets a chance to prove it.”

“Tell him that, then he’ll WANT to try again.” She wondered how far his obduracy was loyalty to the artist or to his own judgment in choosing him, but whatever it was, the switch from attack to defence was characteristic. While she was thinking of this he turned on her suddenly. “How did it happen you got these from Foy?”

“I met him in the street and he told me they’d just come.”

“He had them with him?”

“No. They were at his house.”

“So you went to his house?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you meet him?”

“I—I don’t know—about two o’clock. Or soon after.”

“It’s four now. How long did you stay at his house?”

“Perhaps an hour. Does it matter?”

“How COULD you spend a whole hour there? He’s such a bore—”