Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

As soon as she embarked at Cherbourg she felt tired and lack-lustre. It was as if the Riesbach interlude, now that it was over, had withdrawn its own illusion of well-being, leaving only the memory of an enchantment too slight to lean on. The goodbye to Paul, so far from upsetting her, had been in some sense a relief, and though he had said he planned to be back in America by September, she was surprised to find that the idea of his return did not fit into her mind as something terrific to look forward to—rather, in her present mood, as merely another and a further horizon of ordeal. For the new play was already the nearer one, and although she knew how difficult Paul was when he was directing, the thought of some other director made her feel very glum. But of course it could not be helped. Thank goodness Paul’s all right; he’s happy; let him get back to his work and I to mine; in this spirit she could face any future. On the boat she surrendered to something else that was harder to analyse—not quite depression, but a deep lassitude of the body that matched an inner indifference the like of which she could not remember in her life before; it centred on the new play, which of course she would study as soon as she reached New York, but she was actually glad she hadn’t it with her during the trip—she lacked even a desire to read it.

She spent the first four days at sea in her room, the weather being rough. On the fifth day, approaching the Grand Banks, the skies cleared and the rolling lessened, so that many of the passengers, like herself, appeared on deck for the first time. She did the regulation walk, then found a vacant chair, a rug, and a novel. Next to her in the long line was a grey-haired man, rather good-looking and apparently asleep. There was something about him that made her think she might have seen him before—not that she could know him personally, for she had a good memory for acquaintances, but perhaps his was one of the faces that sometimes emerge from the blur beyond the footlights, randomly and as a challenge when an audience is cold—see that man at the end of row three, centre aisle—he’s not laughing, MAKE him laugh, make HIM laugh… occasionally in comedy one got as desperate as that, and it was significant that now, with the new play distantly on her mind, such desperations were easy to remember. She was staring at the man, still wondering and remembering, when she realized he had opened his eyes and was staring back at her.

He smiled and said slowly: “Miss Arundel, isn’t it?”

She was used to this kind of thing, and though it was sometimes a nuisance, she knew that if it ever ceased happening she would have much more to worry about; apart from which, in this instance, she had been staring first. So she returned his smile. “Yes, that’s right.”

“I thought I recognized you.” She was glad he didn’t try to get up or perform any polite manœuvre, tucked in as he was under a very luxurious fur rug. “I’m one of your countless admirers, Miss Arundel. My name is Bond —Austen Bond.”

“My real name is Saffron. Mrs. Paul Saffron.”

“Ah, yes.” She couldn’t be sure whether the name Saffron meant anything to him or whether he was merely being cool towards the revelation. “Are you coming back to New York to give us a new play?”

It was the one thing she didn’t want to talk about. “I expect so,” she prevaricated, “sooner or later.”

“I hope sooner.”

“Thank you.”

“No, no, it’s I who should thank you for giving me so much pleasure.”

To which by all usage she should have murmured vague appreciation and changed the subject, thus ending the seesaw before it began to be ridiculous; but instead she let what was uppermost in her mind dictate a reply— she said: “Don’t forget the director also—and the author—they have a lot to do with a good play.”

“Of course. And I notice you put the director before the author.”

“That was accidental—or perhaps it’s because my husband IS the director—WAS, that is, of my last play.”

The steward came with bowls of hot soup. The effort of dealing with them seemed to make the conversation more intimate, if also more scattered. They discussed foreign travel for a time (she told him she had been visiting Switzerland, and he said he had been on a business trip to Sweden); then the novel on her lap led to gossip about books and writers. He talked intelligently but not learnedly. Now that he was sitting up she could see he was less elderly than she had thought at first; the grey hair was misleading, he did not look more than fifty. He had a proud, strong type of face, the kind that looks sculptured, and there was a sense in which his voice and accent conveyed rather than betrayed the fact that he was American. If he were an actor, she reflected, Paul would probably not cast him for the part of an ambassador because he looked too much like one.

Presently he asked if she were travelling alone, and when she said yes, he asked if she usually dined alone, or had made friends on board. She answered ruefully that so far on the trip she hadn’t dined at all.

“I think there’ll be better weather from now on,” he said.

“I hope so. I’m not a good sailor, though I’m probably not the worst one either.”

“Then perhaps you’d care to join me for dinner this evening?”

When she hesitated, not knowing whether she wanted to or not, he added with quick tact: “That is, if it keeps smooth.” He got up with rather surprising agility and stooped to lift her hand. “Shall we say seven o’clock in the bar near the small restaurant? I’ll look for you there, but if you don’t feel equal to it, please don’t bother. I’ll understand.”

She noticed as he walked away that he was tall and had a good figure —perhaps he was still in his forties and the grey hair could be regarded as premature.

By six o’clock she had almost made up her mind not to keep the appointment. He had given her an easy out, and it was true that the wind was freshening and the sea not quite so calm. But most of all she felt in herself a renewal of the inertia of indifference, plus a somewhat professional feeling that if she were not in a mood to be attractive she had no business to inflict herself on an audience, even a chance-met male audience of one. Then suddenly and for no reason she could think of except again a professional awareness of challenge, she decided to meet Mr. Bond at least for a drink and, if that much bored her, to excuse herself from dinner afterwards. The challenge thus accepted, even in part, she felt immediately encouraged; she dressed carefully and gave herself cautious approval in the mirror. She looked a little off colour, but the reason for it was obvious, and a drink was doubtless one of the things she needed.

He was waiting when she got to the bar, and in a dinner-jacket he had the kind of anonymous distinction that the English have succeeded so well in making fashionable. Only perhaps by someone Irish could the thing be seen through and at the same time admired as an accomplishment. She smiled a greeting and began: “Well, I managed it. I won’t prophesy, but I think I can last out a martini.”

He took her to a table. “Good. It must be very trying to be travelling alone when you don’t feel well.”

“Oh, I haven’t been really ill. Just resting and reading.”

“Lonely, though.”

“No—or rather, if it has been, I’ve enjoyed it. Such a change from one’s normal life—whole days of nothing to do, nobody to argue with, no problems, no appointments, no worries…”

“Do you usually have worries?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” The play that she hadn’t wanted to talk about came in useful now. “I think an actress always worries about her next play even before she knows what it will be.”