Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“You’re very sweet, Austen. Paul was like that too—a play before it opened was always going to be the biggest hit that ever was. Salvation by faith, I suppose. But it didn’t prevent him from taking the actors aside and telling them separately how bad they were.”

The reception at New Haven was more favourable than Austen had expected; the house was sold out and applause, especially for Carey, considerable. Yet he returned to New York the next day with a strong feeling that the theatre was another of the things he must rescue her from. His inside glimpse into the lives of actors had fascinated him, but without enchantment; he had been chiefly impressed by the strain and uncertainties of their work, the last- minute anxieties and confusion, the wear and tear on the nervous fabric.

The New York opening also went better than he had expected, but by then he had come to expect so little that this was faint praise, and the applause seemed almost an effort by an audience that liked Carey to make amends for not having laughed enough at the play. He went to her dressing-room afterwards and joined in the general chorus of congratulation; he felt that nobody was sincere, yet that the play had not failed so conspicuously as to make insincerity mercifully impossible. He was sensitive to atmosphere, even in an unfamiliar world, and excused himself from an after-the-show party chiefly for the reason that he doubted how long he could match the professional make-believers in their make-believe. Carey understood, or he thought she did; she seemed relieved to let him go. The next day, calling at his house, she confirmed that the party had been a progressively dismal affair, culminating in the reading of the notices in the morning papers. He had read them himself at the breakfast-table, and they had scarcely surprised him, except by the extent to which some confirmed his own personal yet hesitant opinions.

She said, sinking into a chair: “Well, Austen, there’s one consolation —now the bad news is out, we can all relax.”

“How long do you think it will run?”

“After those notices? A week… maybe.”

“It’s a pity… all that effort… time… hopes…”

“To say nothing of money. Fortunately it wasn’t mine… Oh, dear, why did we all kid each other? If only someone had had the guts to say—‘Look, this is junk—what are we going ahead with it for?’ Nobody really believed in the thing from the start—_I_ didn’t—I don’t think you did, either, after that rehearsal. But you were too polite—or else you didn’t want to be the wet blanket. It’s incredible—the way we all sleep-walked into it—why didn’t somebody wake up?”

“Why didn’t YOU wake up, Carey?”

“That’s a fair question. I suppose the truth is that once rehearsals begin it’s always a question of jobs—you don’t like to do anything that throws people out of work, especially these days. And the author had written hits before—he kept saying this would be another. Maybe he believed it… you never can go by what an author thinks of his own work, Paul always says.”

“Do you think with Paul as director it could have been a success?”

“He’d have got far more out of me and everyone else, that’s certain. And the play isn’t so much worse than others that have been hits… And yet I’m doubtful. Somehow I’ve an idea Paul’s neatest trick would have come when he’d first read the script—he’d have said No. And then he’d have telephoned the author. Believe me, that was something to listen to— Paul saying no to an author.”

“You mean he was brutal?”

“Usually he was charming, and especially on the telephone. He would talk one way and look at me another. He didn’t really LIKE authors, but he knew they were a bit necessary in the theatre business.”

“It would have saved him trouble if he’d written plays himself.”

“Oh yes, he tried, but he used to say it cramped him to think theatrically in terms of mere words. Isn’t that a beautiful way to admit there was something he couldn’t do?”

She laughed, and her cheeks were flushed; she did not look as if the fate of the play were distressing her much. But perhaps it was something else, for he had often noticed that when she talked about Paul and especially when she reminisced about him, she could launch herself into an almost hilarious mood, as if he were still a core of pleasantry, if not of pleasure, in her heart.

She said, sighing: “Oh, what a cool calm house this is, Austen… It’s such a relief to be here.”

“I always hoped you’d find it that. What are you going to do when the play closes?”

“Look for another, I suppose.”

“It wouldn’t do you any harm to take a rest.”

“Sure, it would be fun to be unemployed if I didn’t have to earn a living.”

“You don’t have to worry about earning one immediately.”

“Oh no, I’m not quite on the rocks. And perhaps Paul’s film will make a fortune.” Then she evidently recollected the facts and added, with some embarrassment: “A fortune for you and success for him—that’ll be all fair and square.” She seemed still more embarrassed at that, as if the joke had made it worse instead of better. “By the way, when are we going to see it? You said you were having a print shipped over.”

Expecting her to be unhappy about the play, he had planned to postpone giving her the latest news about Paul, but now he thought he might as well. He said: “I’m afraid there may be some delay.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Paul… it seems… isn’t pleased with me for having intervened— as I thought—on his behalf.”

“So I gathered from that last letter he wrote me, which was weeks ago. The Hidden Hand of Wall Street, Art versus Dollars—it had some ringing phrases… Anything happened since?”

“He evidently likes litigation.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s already changed his lawyer and started suit against me.”

“Against YOU? What on earth for?”

“He disputes my title to the property.”

“You mean the film? But CAN he?”

“Naturally he can dispute anything he likes, but an honest lawyer would tell him when it’s no use. Apparently his original lawyer WAS honest, so he had to find another.”

“Oh dear, I’m so very sorry.”

“Carey, it isn’t YOUR fault.”

“I wasn’t apologizing. Sorry can mean—sorrow… can’t it? That’s what I feel.”

And suddenly she looked it. He sat on the arm of her chair and tried to comfort her. She soon controlled herself and pressed his hand. “Oh, Austen, don’t worry about me. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Carey, I know your trouble. I think I’ve known it ever since I met you on the boat. Or part of it. Carey… may I be very frank—even at the risk of putting my nose in where I shouldn’t? You’re a success, that goes without saying—-one flop does nothing to disprove it—and I’ve admired you on the stage just as thousands of others have… but since I’ve got to know you personally I’ve admired you… so much more… in other ways… that… that… please remember this is none of my business unless you wish it to be… I’ve wondered… lately… is it ENOUGH for you? Do you have a sense of vocation that makes everything worth while? You’re so happy at the farm—doing simple things—talking to Norris, having a quiet time… you somehow don’t fit in with all the scurry and bustle of stage life.”

“I wonder.”

“Of course you’re the first actress I’ve ever known, I admit that.”

“Yes—and this is the first play you’ve ever been on the inside of, isn’t it? That’s a pity, because it really was exceptional. Most plays have a chance—or at least you genuinely think they have—you wait for the opening night like judgment day, but not like the electric chair. From the first reading to last night’s fiasco the prisoner marched confidently from the condemned cell to the death house… I’ve never known anything quite like that before. So please don’t generalize from your one play—or from your one actress.”