Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“I’m afraid it’s only a small fraction of what you asked.”

And he began to chuckle. “Who gets all he wants in this world, Carey? Perhaps YOU do… You’ve had most things. Fame, fortune, health… How’s that boy you once talked about—Norris, wasn’t that the name? Of course, you can guess what reminded me of him. I was counting the things you’d had, and I suddenly thought of the one thing you haven’t had… children of your own. D’you find Norris a good substitute?”

“I don’t find him a substitute at all. He’s in Germany now. It’s over a year since I saw him, but he came through it all, that’s the main thing… Here’s tea.”

She had seen the door opening, but it wasn’t Flossie carrying the tray. It was Austen. She felt a sudden constriction of the heart that made her quite breathless for a moment. Paul in the chair was invisible to Austen as he crossed the room, and by the time the two men confronted each other she was standing between them, vaguely smiling and gasping out an introduction. Austen seemed so little surprised that she guessed he had been told that Paul was there, and Paul, trying to rise with the aid of his stick, eased the situation by his infirmity. Austen gestured him not to get up, shook hands with him, and made some comment to Carey about the weather. She responded, and from then on, so far as she was concerned, it was all acting. Amidst the first exchanges of civilities Flossie entered with the tea-things, and this provided a whole ritual of movement while the two men conversed. Austen was reserved, but formally polite. Paul, to her relief, and presently to her slight amusement, turned on the charm. Never, she felt sure, had he been more genial. The things he did not mention at all were perfectly chosen— films, money, and his own personal affairs; while the topics that did inevitably crop up—post-war Europe and the general state of the world —were touched upon by him in a mood of urbane wistfulness that (Carey could see) made its own peculiar appeal to Austen. She thought: But for me these two men could be friends—for about five minutes, or until Paul decided it was too much of an effort. But as a spectacle it was fascinating —to see him feeling his way into Austen’s personality as if it were a part in a play that had to be interpreted. The climax came when Paul, having been gently pessimistic about the future of western civilization, quoted from a speech made by Serge Diaghileff in 1905: ”’… We are witnesses of the greatest moment of summing- up in history, in the name of a new and unknown culture, which will be created by us, and which will also sweep us away. That is why, without fear or misgiving, I raise my glass to the ruined walls of the enchanted palaces, as well as to the new commandments of a new aesthetic. The only wish that I, an incorrigible sensualist, can express, is that the forthcoming struggle should not damage the amenities of life, and that the death should be as beautiful and as illuminating as the resurrection.’”

“All that from Diaghileff?” Austen said, when Paul made a pause.

“Yes. At a dinner in St. Petersburg.”

“Far-seeing.”

“Diaghileff was a far-seeing man.”

“You knew him?”

“Not then, of course. But during the early ‘twenties, when I was still young and impressionable and taking my first trip abroad, I had the nerve to write to him and he was gracious enough to meet me at a Montmartre café. How naďve he must have thought my ideas! Yet he listened, and discussed them, and gave me just the few words of encouragement I then needed.”

It made a winsome picture—the modest youth from Iowa at the feet of the world-weary Gamaliel in Paris, and the only thing amiss with it, Carey suspected, was that it had probably happened very differently, if at all.

There followed more anecdotes, delightfully told, yet as they continued Carey began to feel some strain in her enjoyment of the performance, as if she were watching the try-out of a new kind of trapeze act. After more cups of tea and another half-hour of chatter she was really quite glad when Paul rose to go. He shook hands with her, and Austen took him out to the hall. A moment later Austen returned. He went to the sideboard and mixed himself a whisky and soda. By that time Flossie was clearing away the tea-things and drawing the curtains.

“Good talker,” Austen commented when they were alone. “Do you think he made all that up about Diaghileff?”

She knew then that the assessments had not been all on one side. “The speech? He might have, though he seemed to know it by heart.”

“I must see if I can check on it. Really quite worth remembering.”

“Paul or the quotation?”

He smiled. “I must admit I hadn’t imagined him quite so affable.”

She said: “Yes, nobody can be more charming than Paul when he chooses.”

“So he chose to be just now?”

“Evidently… He’s broke, he says, and wants work. In films.”

“He won’t find it easy to get.”

“No? Because he’s made enemies?”

“Partly. I don’t think Hollywood will bid very high for his services.”

“Oh, Hollywood…”

“Well, where else can he try? There’s no other place over here.”

“What he’d really like is to make a film of his own—maybe IN Hollywood, but independently. He did that in Europe, and apparently he had some big successes. Commercial successes.”

“I know he did, but the system’s different over there—or was, before the war. Anyhow, his European reputation doesn’t count at the American box-office, and for four years he’s been out of touch with everything.”

“You seem to know a good deal about the film business.”

“Only financially. My little venture with Everyman taught me a few things.”

“I can understand it taught you not to trust Paul.”

“Well, no, not exactly. The circumstances were unusual… I wouldn’t generalize from that one experience. He’s a slippery customer, but not, I’d say, from any financial dishonesty—it’s his temperament.”

“That’s very reasonable of you, Austen. If only HE were as reasonable… but he isn’t. If he had been he wouldn’t have had to lose those four years.”

“Yes, that was a pity. Four years is long enough for most people to forget and be forgotten.”

“So you think if he wanted to make a picture now he wouldn’t find anyone to back him?”

“You mean a personal corporation with a bank putting up the money?”

“I—I don’t know. Is that the way it would be done?”

“If it COULD be done. But I don’t think there’s a chance. Of course, he might interest one of the big studios in whatever picture idea he has. But he’d have to sell it for what they’d offer, and if they employed him on the job he couldn’t expect a big salary.”

“I think he wants authority—control—more than money.”

“Unfortunately what he wants isn’t likely to matter much.”

“That seems hard, when he has such abilities. Do you have influence with any of the studios?”

“Not to a point where I could help a man who asks for the moon. There are only a handful of people in Hollywood who have real authority and control —it’s a rare thing there.”

“But you COULD find him a job—a subordinate job—if he were satisfied with that?”

“It’s possible. One of the smaller studios has connections with some banking people I know. That might work if I cared to try it.”

“If you cared to, naturally. And I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. There’s no reason why you should raise a finger for him.”

“It isn’t that, Carey. I’d help him if he were helpable. But if his sights are too high—ridiculously high, what can anyone do? And incidentally, I’d rather you weren’t mixed up in this at all. He and I have now met, and I’m not sorry that happened, because he can contact me again, directly, if ever he wants.”