Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

From that moment something that Austen had already dreamed of became in his mind a possibility to be handled with care and calm and infinite patience. And to do this, to envisage the remote chance and guide it, partly following it, to the safe haven of happening—this was a task for which few minds were better equipped.

What he already dreamed was that Carey should some day divorce Paul and marry him. But that, in itself, was not enough, or even desirable, unless it came about in a positive way—not only by her own realization that he, Austen, could make her happier than Paul had, but by her own desire for that extra happiness. Mere disillusionment with Paul would not perform the miracle; Austen had no desire to capture her on any kind of rebound. And yet, at the right moment, disillusionment might help. He had given the matter much thought, and he believed he would know the right moment if and when it came —or at least he would know when it had not yet come. For this reason he did not tell her more than a fraction of what he had learned about Paul. His German informants had done a thorough job, but the weapon as handed him was too clumsy; he shrank from the practice of emotional blackmail, even if it would work. But beyond his fastidiousness was a sense of timing as subtle, in its way, as an actor’s. It was not the first time he had had to judge when the day was rainy enough to make necessary the disclosure of a hidden reserve. There was no such urgency—yet, and on Paul’s return the whole thing might even have to be postponed indefinitely. In that case he, Austen, would be thankful for not having precipitated the kind of crisis that would make his own future relationship with Carey impossible. She would have time; indeed, it was hard to realize she was still so young. Perhaps it was self- flattery that he always thought of her as older than she was; or perhaps it was the one thing Paul had done—unwittingly, unforgivably, yet fortunately—for his successor. He had AGED her.

After dinner that evening Austen said: “I expect you’ve been wondering how we can help Paul. How would you like me to buy an interest in the picture?”

“YOU?”

“It wouldn’t be so far out of my line.”

“But how would it help?”

He smiled. “You were upset this afternoon—that’s why I didn’t go into details then. As I size up the situation, there are a group of business men who originally had faith in Paul. All they want now is to cut a loss and be rid of him. Specifically, they want to bring in another director to change the ending of the picture—to make it more commercial, I suppose. That’s what the legal sparring is all about. But I’ve an idea that if someone were to come along and offer to buy their investment at so many cents on the dollar—and perhaps not so very many at that—they’d jump at it.”

“It mightn’t be a profitable investment for you.”

“Listen… You said the picture must be good because Paul told you so. I’ll take your word for it, just as you take his.”

“But I meant good artistically.”

“Let me keep my cynical belief that there can be money even in art.”

“But how—if you did buy—how would it help HIM?”

“By ending all the legal tangle, with him left in full artistic control, because naturally I shouldn’t interfere. It’s not, by the way, a very costly picture, by American standards. When I said he’d been extravagant, I meant relatively.”

“Austen… it’s terribly generous of you, but I can’t see why you should do it.”

“I won’t, unless I can get a bargain, so don’t call it generous. Anyhow, there’s no harm in having my people over there feel things out. And in the meantime, not a word in your letters to Paul. This kind of negotiation has to be done rather secretly. I hope he won’t mind.”

“Oh, I’m not worrying about that. He’ll be happy enough as long as you leave him alone.”

“I’ll leave him alone, all right.”

A couple of weeks later they had news for each other. They met at his New York house and he told her as casually as he could that he had bought the film. “It was pretty much as I thought—which means that the price was low. So low, indeed, that I really don’t see how I can lose.”

“Then why did they sell?”

“I don’t know, but if you want me to guess I’d say that Paul’s been such a headache they’re glad to get out at any price.”

“That’s possible.”

She seemed so disinterested that he waited for her to reveal why. After a silence he went on: “You don’t seem very excited.”

“I’m sorry. I’d already heard about it from Paul. I had a letter this morning.”

“Oh, I see. And what’s his attitude?”

She shook her head as if in despair at being able to convey it. “He’s unpredictable—I’d have thought he’d be glad, or at least that he wouldn’t care… but the kind of letter he sent me… about some Wall Street millionaire buying the picture over his head—you’d think he’d been insulted.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t realize yet that I don’t intend to interfere. When he does he may feel differently.”

“I doubt it. Now that the picture’s finished and the trouble’s all over, I’ll bet the whole thing’s already half out of his mind. He’s like that… He’s not coming back just yet, by the way.”

“No?”

“He’d planned it for next month, but now he says he can’t get away till later in the year.”

“That’s too bad… for you.”

“Yes, it’s disappointing, isn’t it? But the reason he gives is funny —he says he’s working on an idea for another picture, only this time it’ll be all his own and he’s not going to have interference from anybody.”

She began to laugh, rather wildly, at that. He came over to her chair and touched her shoulder. He had never felt more tempted to put the issue to some kind of test, but caution prevailed. He said: “I’m glad you’re not upset.” (Although he wondered if she were.) “Personally I’m looking forward to seeing his picture. I’ve asked them to ship me a print and I’ll find some place we can have it run for us. Now tell me about your own affairs. How’s the play going?”

“It’s shaping up. We open for a trial week in New Haven after Labour Day.”

“Then I’d better fix a time for coming to one of your rehearsals.”

“Yes, if you still want to. I thought you’d forgotten. You might find it interesting.”

He did indeed, for it was a completely novel experience to sit in an almost empty theatre and watch a play without benefit of scenery, adequate lighting, or audience response. As an outsider he was struck at first by the improvisations—the stage manager’s ‘ting-a-ling’ to indicate a telephone call, the way in which non-existent properties were assumed to be touchable and movable by the actors. It was as fascinating as the inside of a piano to a little boy who sees it tuned for the first time, and there was enough of the little boy in Austen to keep him preoccupied for at least ten minutes. After that he began to listen with an effort to judge the play as a whole. Never before had he taken a deliberately critical mind to a theatre; usually, like most patrons, he went to be entertained, and either was or wasn’t, with no particular need to decide why. He realized he had no specialized critical equipment, still less any experience that would enable him to discount the conditions of a rehearsal. Yet the intelligence to know what he lacked was itself a sort of equipment, and on this basis he found himself doubtful, half-way through the first act, that the play was good enough, and sure, half-way through the second act, that it wasn’t. By ‘good enough’ he meant, modestly, the kind of play he would have put money into had he been the kind of speculator who backs plays at all. That was the only way he felt qualified to make a decision, and fortunately he hadn’t to make it. Later he privately decided that the play’s only chance of success was in the stratosphere of some miraculous carnival mood, if the latter should take hold of Carey; there was no sign of it yet, or even that it was possible. At least, however, he would give it no discouragement. So he told her, when she met him afterwards, that he had enjoyed himself and thought she might have another winner.