Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

She said: “Look, Paul, get to bed and don’t lie awake thinking about plays or anything else. I’m going to sleep the clock round, and then tomorrow…” She was about to say she would take a long walk, but that was one of the things he would not share with her, so she changed it to: “Tomorrow we’ll sit in the garden and pretend we haven’t a care in the world. Not much pretence needed, either. We’re very lucky people—doesn’t that ever occur to you?”

“Sure, but we mustn’t sit back and HOARD luck. That’s just the way to lose it.”

It seemed to her about the most disquieting answer he could have given.

Carey had received several offers from motion picture companies but had turned them down because she would not think of doing anything without Paul, and though Paul had received feelers himself, they had never in his case reached the point of a firm offer because he had always made it clear that he would want complete control of everything—story, cast, direction, production, cutting, and music; and as he was prompt to add that he knew nothing about motion pictures and hardly ever saw them, the movie moguls were doubtless intrigued, but not enough to buy Carey at such a price. Actually all this was very much of a pose. He knew a great deal about motion pictures and had seen many. It was also a fact that shortly after their marriage he and Carey had lived in Hollywood for about a year. That year had been one of failure, and as if to propitiate obscure deities he would never talk of it, or even admit its existence. Carey had no such feeling herself, but she was aware of his, and made it one of her own secrets also. It was thus without any sense of untruth that Paul could indulge in one of his favourite confessions—that when once he had been stranded in Los Angeles for a few hours he had been curious enough to ask a taximan to drive him around Hollywood, but the expedition had covered such dreary territory that he could only (in fairness to such a world-famous name) conclude that the driver must have lost his way.

But now a few conversations with Malcolm Beringer, a young man of no particular standing or importance, were enough to effect a change— not, it is true, in his attitude towards Hollywood, but certainly in his angle of aloofness towards motion pictures in general. Perhaps Malcolm’s deficiencies were even an asset, for Paul was no respecter of big names and rather enjoyed the caprice of paying attention to the unknown, always provided they had qualities to attract him. Malcolm, moreover, was fey, and Carey, being Irish, was on her guard against this from the outset. After his second visit to Mapledurham, she tried to find out how far Paul was in danger of losing his normally keen judgment, but all she got was another discussion of Everyman. Then suddenly, to her direct question, Paul answered: “I’ll tell you one reason why I like him. It’s because he reminds me of myself at his age. No money, no name—just ideas and ambition.”

She had to laugh at that. “It can’t be so long since you WERE his age, Paul. He must be thirty at least. So don’t treat him like a son.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. To him I’m just an older man who’s already made his way in the world. A very pleasant relationship can be had on that basis.”

“Like you and Mr. Rowden in Dublin?”

“Perhaps… though I hadn’t thought of it.”

(She knew she had touched a nerve. Rowden was dead; they had seen it in the papers some years back. Paul had been sad after reading the obituary and had said then, without subsequent explanation, “I don’t think I treated him very well. He wanted to help me and I wouldn’t let him.”)

She answered: “Perhaps, then, it isn’t Malcolm who’s anything like you used to be, but you who fancy yourself growing up to be like Mr. Rowden… Only I hope you won’t.”

“Oh? I wouldn’t be ashamed of myself if I did.”

“But I still hope you don’t.”

Some sort of major issue was being stated by them, but in a minor key and without emphasis. He said after a pause: “All I meant is that Rowden was kind to me and I wasn’t as kind to him as I ought to have been, in some ways. You don’t know all the facts.”

It was on her tongue to reply: “Perhaps you don’t, either”—but she checked herself and smiled. She said instead: “Darling, we’re getting into deep waters. Just don’t let Malcolm tempt you into anything you don’t really want. That’s all _I_ mean.”

He laughed and said there was no fear of Malcolm tempting him at all —either into what he wanted or what he didn’t want. “I only tempt myself,” he added. “And then, invariably, I yield.” This being the kind of epigram, half purloined as a rule, with which he liked to end an argument, she was satisfied to say no more for the time being.

But Malcolm still remained, to her at least, a somewhat mysterious person. Everyman to him was charged with modern significance; he read into it some vast cosmic meaning that Carey would not for the world have disputed. Paul, on the other hand, saw it theatrically—as sheer spectacle and drama. They were probably well matched as collaborators, which is what Carey soon discovered them to be; and again it alarmed her, if only because it was unlike Paul to be able to collaborate with anybody about anything. Then it appeared that Paul was actually planning picture shots while Malcolm was writing a script.

She pretended to be casual. “It’s all right if it interests you, Paul, but what does Malcolm expect to come of it? I hope you haven’t promised him anything. It’s so easy nowadays to get yourself in a tangle.”

“Oh, he’s not that kind. We have no written agreements, anyway. Nothing to sue about.”

“He can’t be working like this for fun, though.”

“Why not? What would you have him do for fun? Play golf?”

“All right, darling—enjoy your joke. Golf wouldn’t do your figure any harm.”

“I’m thinning it down again now. I lost two pounds last week.”

Another bad sign. She said, still trying to disguise her seriousness: “Paul, why don’t you tell me what’s in that busy mind of yours?”

“Sure. There’s no secret about it—never has been. I’ve always said that one of these days I’ll make a picture.”

“But when will you find the time? The play’s quite likely to run all through next year.”

“If it does it won’t need me to keep it going.”

This was the first time he had ever said anything so sensible, yet in another way so ominous. She replied, still casually: “True, of course. Plenty of people commute between New York and Hollywood.”

“Hollywood? Good God, you can’t imagine anyone there would be interested in Everyman?”

“Who would, then?”

Expansively he answered: “Only the public. Only Thomas, Richard, and Henry, to whose pursuit of happiness the movies ought to be dedicated. Only the kind of people who paid to see Shakespeare and hear Wagner and read Dickens—only the world audience that never has missed a good thing whenever one comes along.”

This was the surest danger signal of all, because she knew he did not mean it. Artistically he was an authoritarian; he did what pleased him and had small regard for popular taste as an arbiter of quality. But when it suited him he could take the opposite and currently fashionable view, and chance acquaintances who caught him in such moods were apt to retain a wrong impression for life. Carey, however, was not taken in. She knew that when he said something he did not mean he must be meaning something he would not say.

She said quietly (ignoring Thomas, Richard, and Henry, as well as Shakespeare, Wagner, and Dickens): “But what about Malcolm? Has he done film work before? Come to that, Paul, has he had any theatrical or dramatic experience at all?”