Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

She sat by the fire and drank a glass of sherry before ceasing to chatter about unimportant things. His house seemed to give her calmness whenever she needed it. Then she exclaimed: “Oh, what a terrifying person, Austen! No wonder Paul always capered with her. CAPERED, yes. I can see now he had to do SOMETHING in self-defence.”

Austen poured a drink for himself and threw a log on the fire. “Does she mind if you don’t eat with her on Thursday?” he asked with deliberate matter-of-factness.

“Oh no, that’s all right. She’s the centre of a sort of salon—she won’t be alone. But we got on to much more dangerous topics than Thanksgiving… She’s INCREDIBLE, Austen. She’s been writing to Paul about us for weeks.”

“WHAT?”

“Writing to him… all the time…”

“You’d better tell me how all this cropped up.”

“Yes… quite a scene it was, believe me. I’ve never pretended I didn’t know you, but since she didn’t mention you to me till today, I never did to her… yet all the time, it seems, she’s been gathering information— gossip, I suppose—and sending it on to Paul. In fact they’ve been having a long correspondence together—about you—and me. She knew, for instance, that I’d asked Paul to give me a divorce.”

He said, in a clipped voice that was a further attempt to suppress his own tensions: “Does she know whether he will?”

“She hates me, so she’s in favour of it… but she wants Paul to bring the suit himself and she’d like him to make all kinds of accusations. Involving you, I’m afraid.”

“Except for your sake, Carey, I wouldn’t give a damn. But never mind what SHE wants—what’s he going to DO?—that’s the issue.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?… NOTHING?… How can anyone do nothing?” He added, taking her hand: “I’m sorry, I really must keep my temper.”

She nodded in sympathy. “I know. Paul always had the most subtle ways of being a nuisance.”

“It’s not subtle and I’d call it worse than a nuisance.”

She did not reply to that, and after a silence he continued: “So he just won’t give an answer at all… is that what it amounts to?”

“No, he’s been quite frank in a letter to his mother. He says I can go through any legal procedure I want, but HE won’t do anything. He won’t contest it, or agree to it, or acknowledge it, or discuss it with me or anyone else—he won’t accept or sign any papers or answer letters —he simply won’t make a move of any kind.” She began to smile and there came from her a sound that was amazingly like a giggle, but her face had lost its flush and was now very pale. She was clearly under a strain perhaps as great as his own.

He said, in a level voice: “Well, I think we can handle all that if we put it in the right hands. The main point is that he won’t contest—unless he changes his mind.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll do that, from the mood he’s in… He’s different from his mother, although in so many ways she’s made him what he is. He turned down flat her idea of accusing me… of us… of anything. I saw the letter. I was surprised at the tone of it—I don’t believe he ever squashed her quite so utterly before. He doesn’t really want to harm people.”

“Carey, he couldn’t harm US if he tried. Take my word that he couldn’t —he’s in no position to—he’s… oh well, so long as you realize that, let’s not argue. It’s something, of course, that he isn’t as vindictive as his mother, but I don’t think I’ll express any gratitude. I’m not one of those disappointed authors whom he makes a specialty of charming.”

He would have regretted and apologized for the sarcasm had he not seen her smiling again, in the way that hurt him immeasurably, yet which he did not dare comment on, much less rebuke her for. She said: “I’d like to see him TRYING to charm you, though,”—and then continued, as if eased by the thought: “She showed me the letter. She was so angry I don’t think she realized that some of it was what she wouldn’t have liked me to know. I mean, the part where Paul told her off… I didn’t think he was capable of it… Imagine, though, she’d been storing all this up for weeks—never a word about it all the times I’ve been meeting her… till today.”

He could well imagine it, being schooled in such reticences himself, but he answered: “Put the whole thing out of your mind, Carey, if you can. It’s just a lawyer’s problem from now on. So long as we both get what we want in the end, and we know what that is, the details aren’t of any consequence.”

“But some of them are so funny, Austen—such as when he said in the letter that every true Catholic would applaud his attitude. Actually, yes —these were his words! He isn’t a Catholic, and nor is she, and it’s due to him, probably, that I’m not much of one myself, any more—yet he can talk about every true Catholic applauding him! You’d think he was leading the Counter-Reformation or something! Just how important does he think he and his attitudes are?”

Even though the mockery was against Paul, and quite scathing, he could not share the spirit of it, because there was nothing in what he knew of Paul to impel him to any kind of laughter. He said, bringing her back to seriousness: “Well, after what happened this afternoon, you certainly won’t want to see his mother again.”

“Probably not. I’m not good at having rows—they upset me. That’s why I’m a bit upset now.”

“I understand that, Carey. I hate rows too. I never want to see again a person I’ve quarrelled with.”

“And I hate to quarrel with anyone I hope to see again. Is that the same thing?”

He took some satisfaction from thinking it might be. At any rate, the old routines of her life were breaking up, and, as he planned it, the new ones under his guidance would presently take possession.

The next day he had a long interview with his lawyers, as a result of which Carey visited another lawyer recommended by them. Austen was anxious that she should have as little as possible to do with the actual machinery of the suit, that she should not even know the state of its progress, beyond what was necessary; and for this reason he rarely referred to it during the weeks that followed, though he himself was kept informed of every detail. His lawyers had served him for years and he trusted them enough to be perfectly frank about his own interest in the case; he told them also of the somewhat peculiar attitude to be expected from the husband. Doubtless they passed this on to Carey’s lawyer, whom Austen was careful not to meet or have any direct dealings with. He was all for employing that discretion which was the better part, not only of valour, but of getting his own way. Nor had he been completely candid with Carey in saying he would be indifferent to any accusations made against him, nor was it true that Paul had no power to harm by smearing. The power to do this, as he well knew, is conferred by the person whose position is high enough to be smearable, and though ordinary scandal could not affect him professionally he was personally sensitive to it and had an almost pathological distaste for publicity. All these things were much on his mind, while he never spoke of them.

Christmas and New Year passed with nothing accomplished. Letters to Paul from Carey’s lawyer were not only unanswered but presently came back as undeliverable, which seemed to indicate that Paul had changed his address and might well succeed in hiding himself if he were so determined. In the meantime he had apparently dropped the suit about the film—perhaps to facilitate his evasion of the larger issue. As week after week went by with no sign of escape from the impasse, Austen caught himself yielding to the beginnings of obsession; he resented Paul not only on account of Carey, but because he felt they were at hostile poles in their entire techniques of thought and action. Although he was relieved that Paul had refused to bring counter-charges, he would have disliked him for them no more than for this nonsensical and exasperating obstructionism—so baffling because it was in essence so childish. Perhaps he disliked him most of all because he could not understand him—he could not understand why, if Paul wanted Carey, he did not return and seek to reclaim her; or why, if he did not want her, he would not gladly unload his responsibility on a successor. There seemed no logic in the man, not even the logic of unregeneracy.