Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“He doesn’t bore me. We just talked.”

“What about?”

“The theatre, of course—the play—you—me— him—he likes you so much.” She said that because he always liked to hear that people liked him, even if he didn’t like them, but this time there was no response except the sort of sarcasm that might have come from a bookish schoolboy; he said: “Again my mind is infinitely relieved.”

She faced him with dawning astonishment. “Paul… what’s happened? Why are you talking about Harry like this?”

“HARRY?… So you call him HARRY?”

“So do you. So does everybody—we did from our first meeting, didn’t we? Paul… PLEASE… it can’t be that you—oh no, that would be too ridiculous.”

He stood up with his back to the fire, his face flushed, eyes glinting. “Carey, I’m not a fool—do you suppose I haven’t noticed the way you look at that man every time he comes to the theatre? And his manner to you —he knows he attracts you—no wonder he won’t miss a rehearsal. And the other day when he made all that fuss about something in his eye —a childish manœuvre—”

“But there was something, a little fly, and I got it out.”

“He didn’t have to ask YOU! Any excuse, though—these drawings are another—”

“Paul! This is really funny… almost… you think a man puts a fly in his eye just for the pleasure of—”

“Carey, tell me this, why SHOULD he ask you to his house? Why not send over the drawings by messenger—he has servants and it’s only a few blocks away! And an hour—with HIM—just for talk. How much do you expect me to swallow?”

She was speechless for a moment; it was now beyond a joke, and as full awareness of what was happening took possession of her, she found she had no voice for anything but a few scattered sentences. “Paul, you know I love you. Are we actually quarrelling—and about something so utterly beyond reason?… I don’t know what to say, except that… your suspicion… any suspicion you can possibly have… about anything… is just plain silly. You believe me, Paul, don’t you?”

He stared at her with hard eyes. “I believe you’re becoming a very good actress.”

That changed her mood abruptly; she stepped away from him in a cold rage that made her feel physically sick. “All right. What more can I say?… It would be wasted time. I’m going out for a walk… Take your temperature and see if you still have a fever. Maybe that’s what’s driving you crazy.”

She dashed out of the room, snatching hat and coat on the way to the door. In the street a car just missed her as she ran across. She knew people were staring; she heard the man who had nearly run her down calling after her in anger. She checked her pace and turned into the first side-street. A few yards along this she heard footsteps overtaking her; Paul, dishevelled and panting, seized her arm and pulled her roughly to a standstill. “Come back —come back—” he gasped.

Even at such a moment there was faint comedy in the thought that he who hated to run had actually been forced into a chase. She might have begun to smile had not she seen that his own gasps and chokings were partly of laughter. That made her more furious than ever. “No—leave me alone —I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Carey—come back—I’ll explain everything—”

“Please let me take my walk.”

“But I want to explain—I can’t talk to you while you’re walking —Carey, darling—come back… I’ve got a temperature—I oughtn’t to be out here in the cold air—”

Two things leapt to her mind—first, that he had called her ‘darling’. He never had before—it was a word that did not come easily to him, except ironically or extravagantly when he addressed others. The second thing was his temperature. A gust of anxiety shook her about that. She let him lead her back to the flat without further protest and went straight to the bathroom for the thermometer.

“Only just over ninety-nine,” he said, following her and waving the instrument aside. “I took it just now—nothing to worry about. Let’s have that drink.”

By this time her own emotions were too confused to seek expression. She felt weak and empty of concern, one way or another. “I must rest for a minute, Paul. This kind of thing upsets me.”

He came beside her, kneeling on the floor by the chair and pressing her hand to his face.

“Listen to me, Carey—no need to be upset… just let me explain… don’t interrupt…”

“I’m too tired to interrupt.”

“Carey, I want to talk to you—about jealousy. Sexual jealousy. It’s a terrible thing. It destroys the mind, it warps the judgment—it can make clever people stupid and stupid people murderous—it infects —it poisons—and when the victim’s innocent the others become innocent too, but in a horrible kind of way… Do you remember how you first reacted—the feeling you had when I told you my suspicion? You were STUPEFIED. Not indignant, at first—not angry—not even protesting… but BEWILDERED. The look on your face—blank— expressionless—uncomprehending. Then later you told me very simply how much you loved me, how wrong I was… Only after that, when I said I still didn’t believe you—only THEN you got mad and lost your temper… for which I don’t blame you a bit… Did you ever notice the eyes of a dog that hasn’t done what he’s accused of, but because master is master his only reaction is innocence itself—the sheer acceptance of limitless injustice from the limitlessly beloved? You have to think of animals nowadays to visualize that—a modern heroine isn’t capable of it. But Desdemona WAS, the poor sucker, and it’s the key to the whole interpretation—you have to play the first two attitudes— bewilderment and pure heartbreaking innocence—without ever touching the third one—anger! See?… And by the way, there was one true thing I said—that you were becoming a good actress. That’s what struck me as funny—to pay you my first real compliment and have you stalk out of the room as if you’d been insulted!… But those two things—hang on to them, won’t you?—first the bewilderment, then the simple statement of innocence… Why, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

“I think I’m beginning to find out—what’s the matter—with you.”

He laughed again, but comfortably now—a chuckle, as at a practical joke so comic that the victim should at least be sporting enough to smile. “Carey, don’t you see?—I wanted you to learn from the heart, not from the mind! And you did—even my bad acting took you in completely. Good God, it must have done, for you to think THAT… and Harry of all people!… But I believe it’ll help you to feel the character—she’s a difficult dame, probably the hardest of all Shakespeare’s heroines, because the way she takes a beating isn’t really meekness, it’s a sort of strength in disguise —fascinating the way it builds up during the course of the play —if you’d like us both to go over it again—the handkerchief scene, begin with—”

“Oh no, no. It isn’t so much the part that’s troubling me now.”

“Good. I’m glad you feel more confident.”

She couldn’t control her tears, of pity for him as well as of fading anger and growing relief, but there was a glimpse of horror in his ready assumption that all was well, that his explanation, once made, could instantly undo all the mischief.

He continued jauntily: “Remember in Dublin I said that when an actor feels an emotion intensely it’s natural for him to act? Here’s the corollary —that to make him act you must sometimes make him feel intensely… shock treatment… to get the final rightness—to pin it down once and for all. We’ll know tomorrow if that’s happened to you.”