“Serious?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell from his letter what exactly has been happening, but he seems to have had trouble with the people who’re putting up the money. They’re trying to dispossess him—or something like that… CAN you be dispossessed of a film you’ve made yourself?”
“I should think so. It’s like any other property.”
“Well, of course to Paul it isn’t. He didn’t mind when I sold the house in the country—in fact, it was he who suggested it—but his WORK… that’s different. It’s like an artist having his own canvases seized for debt.”
“That could probably happen too, in certain circumstances. Is the film finished?”
“He says it is, but they want a different ending and he refuses to make one. I suppose it depends on the kind of contract… Well, let’s not have it spoil our evening. I didn’t intend to tell you—after all, why should you be burdened with someone else’s worries?”
He said: “If I had to answer that, I’d ask why you should be burdened by a rather difficult little problem child who doesn’t happen to be your own.”
“I see. Your son and my husband… you’d class them both as problems?”
“Aren’t they?”
“But I like Norris, and I don’t think you’d like Paul. Unless he happened to be in one of his charming moods.”
“You think I’d find him irresistible then?”
“I’ve known it to happen.”
“Does his letter ask your advice?”
“I’m afraid he’s had that—I told him at the outset to make sure of a good lawyer. I wish I could help him, but what can I do—from here? And if I went over to try to straighten things out—I can’t, of course —I’d probably find that the people he’s up against have a case.”
“You’ve known that happen too?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me… well, no, it’s little use even discussing things at this range… Would you like another drink?”
“Yes, I would. And I CAN talk of something else, I assure you. I’m not going to worry.”
For the rest of the evening it seemed that she didn’t, or perhaps she was only keeping a promise not to; they talked of other subjects and in some ways their conversation had never been livelier. Aunt Mildred, before she went up to bed, even commented on Carey’s high spirits—how well she was looking, evidently the week-ends at the farm agreed with her and so on. Later, when they were alone in the library, Austen said: “I don’t want to intrude, but I have certain contacts in Germany… people who could probably find out the facts about Paul’s situation… strictly for ourselves— Paul wouldn’t even need to know it was being done. Would you like me to write to them?”
She seemed touched by his offer, then amused by it. “You’re so tactful —you say Paul wouldn’t even need to know about it. As if he’d care.”
“Well, so much the better. Just an outside and impartial report. Until we have that there’s nothing else can be done.”
“I never thought there was. It’s kind of you, though, to suggest writing to your… contacts. They’re not private detectives, by any chance?”
He wondered what was in her mind to have said that. “No, just financial people, quite respectable, but they have a good nose for other people’s affairs.”
He cabled that night, after she had gone, and for ten days there was no reply except an acknowledgment; nor did she hear again from Paul. She told him that such a gap in her husband’s letter-writing need not be of any significance; he was alive and well, she knew that much from his regular letters to his mother. More and more Austen was getting acquainted with the structure of her life, and Paul’s mother was clearly a part of it. He was reluctant to put personal questions, but he did ask her once if these letters to the old lady contained any fresh news about his business troubles.
She answered: “Oh no, and they wouldn’t be likely to. She only gets GOOD news. He adores her—she’s the last person he’d worry if things were going wrong.”
A few days later Austen received a long communication whose contents made him postpone rather than expedite his next meeting with Carey. He had much to think about and decide. When he had done so he invited her to the farm for a week-end. On their usual Sunday morning walk Grainger was with them at first, discussing crops and animals; then when they were alone, Austen began with no preamble: “I have some information about Paul. He’s in the midst of a legal mix-up, and he does have a lawyer, of course, but I’m afraid—as you guessed—he hasn’t got too good a case.”
“They can’t put him in prison if he loses it, can they?”
“Oh no, it’s a purely civil action… Why, what makes you… ?”
He paused, reconsidering the question as too personal, but she answered without reluctance: “He once got into trouble in England over some money he’d borrowed to stage a play.”
“What happened?”
“The judge said he didn’t think he’d actually intended to defraud anyone… and anyhow, by that time a play I was in was making money so we could repay the amount.”
“I can see you’ve had your difficulties.”
“Yes… but after that Paul left all money affairs in my hands— that is, until recently. What sort of people is he fighting?”
“A few Berlin business men who’re much like other business men— they don’t like to lose money.”
“First of all, though, Paul spent his own money.”
“Yes, and to be fair, he seems to have been just as extravagant with that.”
“How about the film itself? Is it good?”
“My informant didn’t say. It’s probably the last thing anybody’s wondering about till the lawsuit is over—except you and Paul.”
“He’s not wondering. He KNOWS. He told me it was good.”
“Then why did you ask, Carey—unless you think he could be wrong?”
She suddenly put her hand to her eyes. “Yes, why DID I ask? He told me, and if I ever lose that kind of faith in him, I lose it in myself… perhaps that’s what’s been happening to me lately.”
“CAREY!”
She had a puzzled look. “It’s true, though. I don’t seem to be able to act any more.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, that’s the trouble. After all, it’s a comedy, and if I’m serious I’m no help.” She began to laugh, then. “Perhaps it’s only temporary, till I get used to a new situation. It’s odd—when I was a girl I had ambition to be a GREAT actress, which was absurd, because I haven’t it in me. When Paul came along he soon convinced me of that, but on the other hand he did make me a pretty big success—he saw SOMETHING in me and developed it more than I could ever have imagined or hoped for. But in a way I surrendered everything in the process—even ambition. I didn’t NEED ambition, with him around—his was enough for both of us, and of course everything he did included me—until lately. So now I have to get hold of myself, I suppose.”
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 weap
on 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.
“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.”