“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.”
“I wish my one actress would take a long vacation—a year at least to rid herself of all kinds of trouble.”
“ALL kinds?”
“It ought to be possible, if you let yourself face the future realistically.”
“I’m glad we’ve stopped talking of me as HERSELF.” She began to laugh. “Like an Abbey play… And what kind of future do you think— realistically—I have to face?”
He said tensely: “That’s a straight question, but I can’t answer it without talking about Paul.”
“Oh, talk about him, I don’t mind. _I_ talk about him to you.”
“Carey… do you really love him?”
“I’ve told you I don’t MISS him—except his better judgment in saying no.”
“So you’re not really upset by the delay in his return?”
“I’m upset by the mess he seems to be getting himself into over there.”
“Yes, I know, but if a cable came now that he was arriving in New York tonight—how would you feel?”
“Oh, my goodness—HORRIBLE—because I’d hate him to see the play.”
“But apart from that?”
“It’s very hard for me to think of Paul apart from plays.”
“That’s been your life together—principally?”
“Yes—you could say so. Principally. Except for a short time —at first.”
“Then we’re back to what I said before. It isn’t enough. You’ve gone without a great deal.”
“Oh, I’m sure I have.”
“You ought to have had children of your own.”
“I don’t know whose fault that was—Paul’s or mine.”
It seemed to him an answer to a question he wouldn’t have presumed to ask. He went on, after a silence: “Carey, it all boils down to this… how long are you willing to endure a situation that can’t make you really happy —your nature being what it is?”
“Is there an alternative?”
“Of course.”
She said, almost flippantly: “Oh, you mean divorce him? Sure, I could do that—he’s probably been unfaithful with somebody or other… but what exactly would be the point?”
In a single sentence she had blunted the weapon he had furbished for some possible use at a clinching moment. He knew now it would be anti-climax to give her certain facts about Paul; worse than anti-climax, it would recoil ignominiously on himself. He was devoutly thankful he had made good taste the better part of wisdom.
He said simply: “The point, Carey, is that I’d want to marry you if you were free.”
She looked up with interest rather than surprise or enthusiasm, then exclaimed, still flippantly: “You WOULD, Austen? Why, you’ve never even made love to me!”
“That isn’t because I…”
“I know, I know, you’ve been so careful not to spoil things—I’m sure that’s how you’ve thought of it, and that’s why it’s so funny when you talk about my nature being what it is. You just don’t know my nature.”
“You think I don’t?”
“I’m sure you don’t. Or else you do, and you’ve been a bit afraid of it.”
“Carey…” He took her into his arms, yet amidst his joy, the overwhelming joy of finding himself not rebuffed, he was aware of her laughter limiting as well as inviting him.
“Oh, Austen… you’re very sweet not to have understood me for so long. That’s why I’m laughing, not because I’m not just as serious as you are.”
* * * * *
The play came off after four nights, and Austen was sheerly delighted. Now that he had entered on this new relationship with Carey, everything else was in order; he was happy again, after an interval of years which, in retrospect, seemed like a tunnel from which he had just emerged. He had had affairs during that period, not very many, but they had all been rigidly circumscribed, if not furtive, and never had any of them led him to the most abstract contemplation of marriage. But now, with Carey, the fulfilment of a desire reinforced the ambition he had had (he could now realize) from the beginning.
They went to the farm and found all the familiar things doubly enjoyable in a new emotional context—the walks and rides, the pottering about, the first fires of autumn, a long day’s drive to the Catskills to catch the trees in deepest crimson. One brief conversation, at a moment when both were in a mood for practicality, had settled the future as far ahead as could be; it was understood that she would ask Paul for a divorce. Austen did not verify if and when she had done so, and not till a month had passed did he bring up the matter at all. She said then that she had written, but that Paul had not replied. It was like him, of course, not to write for long periods —or perhaps, if he were on a trip somewhere, he might not yet have received her letter. She said she would write again, and Austen wondered, preoccupyingly but not urgently, why she had not thought to do that already.
Nor did they ever discuss whether she would retire permanently from the stage or merely take a long vacation. Austen sensed how unwise it would be to mix this question with the so much more important one of their lives together; if he could make her happy with him, he felt fairly sure she would have a strong impulse, not so much to surrender a career, as to cling to the kind of life which a career would prohibit. He was always ready to barter the shadow of intention for the substance of likelihood. Out of her very happiness he aimed to build a defence against whatever lure the stage could exert; he would make her life comfortable but not placid, exciting enough yet without strain. He not only loved her, but was a connoisseur of qualities he had found in her, and this gave his love an aspect of guardianship.
As for his feeling for Paul, it was hard for him to make up a cool mind, since he so much resented the harm he believed Paul to have done. Yet because Carey usually seemed amused when she talked about Paul, he knew he must never invite her to share his serious condemnation; he must pretend that he too thought Paul a forgivable genius, whom one could no more enchain by marriage than escape from by divorce. For she had said to him reflectively when they had first discussed the future: “I don’t quite know what Paul and I had in common—it certainly didn’t make a marriage.” He had heard that with joy, especially the past tense of it. But then she had continued, less happily for him: “So what it did make, if anything, perhaps a divorce can’t take away.” He had quelled his mind’s retort that he hoped Paul and all Paul meant to her would be taken away, eventually and finally, not only by legal instrument but by the passage of time and the growth of compensating joys.
She kept up her visits to Paul’s mother, and he did not suggest that she make any change in this. He asked her once if Paul and his mother still corresponded regularly and she said yes, just as usual, once a week, like clockwork and about as interestingly, if one judged from the excerpts that Mrs. Saffron read aloud when she visited her.
“It seems to prove, though, that he must have received both your recent letters, so that if he doesn’t reply to them it’s only because he doesn’t choose to.”
“Yes, probably.”
A few weeks later came Thanksgiving, the second since Paul had left America. The previous year she had visited Mrs. Saffron, but had found her in such large company, all eager to finish dinner and play pinochle, that she almost wondered if the old lady had invited her just to demonstrate how little need she had of filial duty. This year Carey saw no reason to repeat the experience, apart from her own desire to spend the day with Austen, but she thought it polite to announce the change in advance and as tactfully as possible. She came to Austen’s house direct from this encounter, and her face, flushed and a little agitated, told him at once that something had happened. He took her into the library and knew better than to start a cross-examination.
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?”