Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

And by the same principle of ‘always sell too soon’ he had decided, about midway during the ‘thirties, that the planning of Norris’s future demanded a sacrifice from himself on the altar of that long-range expediency which was so often his almost unknown god; he would NOT urge the boy to follow exactly in his own footsteps, entering the brokerage firm, learning the ropes, and eventually taking over. Since Norris had never shown any wish to do this, the decision presented no problem at the time; the real problem would come later, when Austen’s more positive plan would require skilled unveiling. Briefly, it was that the boy should graduate into the same world as his own but under slightly different auspices—the slight difference, perhaps, between something that had a past and something else that might have a future. Banking was the profession he had in mind, but not ordinary banking— rather the new semi-governmental kind, of which the Bank for International Settlements at Basle was but the first of probably an illustrious succession. With his influence he might find Norris a job of that sort in which the boy could start a career that might conceivably lead to high and highly secret places. In all this Austen was pushing antennae, as it were, into the years ahead—a vastly more subtle accomplishment than mere indulgence in prophecy.

Father and son had once come close, but not nearly close enough, to a discussion of the issue, during which Austen had been driven to say: “Even assuming that all your extreme ideas are correct, don’t you realize that even in Russia financial experts are necessary? Of course there’d be no place for a firm such as mine, but banking people, fiscal and treasury officials… why, I’ve met some of them, Norris—brilliant fellows—I’ve sat in conference with them. Naturally they didn’t talk politics—they didn’t have to—because the field we were all specialists in is by no means tied to Wall Street or the so-called competitive system or any other particular bęte noire of yours. Every country, no matter what economic road it takes, has currency and exchange problems.”

All this time Norris had been listening more and more cryptically. Presently he said: “You know, father, I’m not easily shocked, but you almost do that to me. Are you seriously suggesting I should enter a bank and learn the tricks of the trade so that when the time comes I can be Commissar for Currency and Exchange?”

This was the kind of remark that grieved Austen immeasurably, bringing him to the edge of a mental abyss. He retorted sharply: “Don’t be so naďve. All I’m suggesting, if you want to know…” And then he hesitated. Even if Norris did want to know, did he want Norris to know? He had all the embarrassment that fathers of an earlier generation were supposed to have when faced with the problem of telling their sons the facts of life. But the facts in those happier days had been merely sexual; now they were economic and cosmic, and in Norris’s case complicated by the shattering likelihood that he knew them already and was wondering how innocent his father was.

“Yes, I would like to know, father.”

The tone was ironic, forcing Austen to make some sort of a reply. This he did, coming to grips with the situation as squarely as he ever could or did. “All I’m suggesting, Norris, is that the world of the future will be increasingly in charge of experts, and that politics, of the street-corner or even the Congressional variety, is becoming very much of a smoke-screen behind which the real rulers quietly get to work with the real issues. If you’d rather be a part of the smoke-screen, fine—though you’ll find it tough going, in the direction you favour, and I shan’t be able to help you. Whereas for the expert, life will continue to offer fascinating employment, a secret choice of sides according to the dictates of one’s mind and heart, and a very fair chance of surviving catastrophe… Technical brains, remember, are the booty that the modern conqueror cannot afford to destroy—while mere soldiers and shouters are a dime a dozen in all countries.”

Norris was silent for so long that Austen added, more uncomfortably than ever: “Well, it’s your future, after all—you HAVE the brains— no one else can finally decide how you use them. Perhaps at least I’ve given you something to think about.”

Norris answered, in a bemused way: “You sure have. You’ve really opened my eyes. I’d no idea you had such a… a mind. WHAT a mind!”

The matter was never again broached with such near frankness. He was less certain now that he wanted to be a writer, despite his ability to sell an occasional magazine article or short story. With rare self-criticism he admitted his lack of everything but talent, and a spiritual arrogance made him feel that talent was not enough. Presently it came to be understood that after finishing at Harvard he would take a year for travel during which he would make up his mind what he wanted to do, not merely what he wanted not to do—an apparent surrender on the part of Austen. But of course Austen never really surrendered, either on that or any other matter; it was his campaign plan of life to avoid direct challenge, to stave off the final no, to make opposition to himself a bore even if it were not to be a hazard.

Meanwhile the war had started in Europe, and once again Austen was faced with his familiar cross: something which he foresaw as inevitable yet also deeply regretted. This was America’s intervention. Liking the cause of the European Allies as little as did the Chicago Tribune, yet as anxious for them to win as was the William Allen White Committee, he found himself gagged as usual by his own awareness of how readily he would be misunderstood; and among those who would misunderstand was certainly Norris. So he would hardly discuss the war with him, though he noted with some satisfaction the boy’s utter confusion about it; at one moment he was violently anti-Hitler, at other times pacifistic, the two often blending into a ‘plague-on-both-your-houses’ cynicism. All of this seemed to Austen relatively unimportant compared with the extremely practical problem of what Norris should do when the war (as Austen was certain it would) engulfed America. Since Norris would be of military age he would have to get into uniform somehow or other, and Austen’s idea was to pull strings to have him commissioned as soon as possible in one of the services; then other strings could be pulled. Unfortunately all this was the kind of thing Austen knew he could not discuss with the boy without risking a direct rebuff, and during the summer of 1941 the relations between them grew strained to the point of an infinite politeness. Sometimes Norris talked to strangers in the Park far more freely than he ever could or did at home, and once he got into an argument that led to a fist fight. He had happened to remark that it was strange that people who professed to follow a religion founded by a carpenter should be so derisive because a certain ruler had once been a house-painter. Part of the small crowd took this to be anti-Christian, another part took it to be pro-Nazi; and as Norris was neither, the whole episode became a lesson to keep his mouth shut such as (though he never guessed it) his father had well learned in his own youth.

A few weeks after returning to Harvard Norris suddenly settled the whole issue in his own fashion by an act which to Austen seemed quite appalling; he volunteered for the American Field Service which was then sending ambulance units to work with the British in Africa. When Norris announced what he had done, Austen could not hide his grief nor the boy a certain sardonic comfort. “I don’t know why you’re worrying so much, father,” he said. “America’s bound to get into the war soon, and then I probably wouldn’t have any choice.”