Paul read this with utter astonishment, then re-read it while a sharp pinpoint of relief transfixed him.
“Not bad news, I hope?” Rowden was saying.
Paul called his thoughts to order. Now that he knew he could leave Venton League so soon and with such a valid excuse he felt at ease; the pinpoint of relief expanded inside him rapidly. “Did I look as if it was bad news? I’m sorry… It’ll seem pretty exciting when I’ve got over the first shock… I expect the real reason I never called you Michael is the difference in our ages, but I will do from now on.” He smiled and passed the cable over. “I never heard of this Mussolini fellow—he’s probably a tough nut to crack, and since I don’t speak Italian… It beats me why I’m picked on for this kind of job. Just because I once had luck with Lloyd George is no guarantee I’ll manage it again.”
Rowden handed back the cable. “IMMEDIATELY too.”
“That’s what it says. A hell of a life, isn’t it?”
“And just when you were beginning to feel at home here.”
“Yes… Too bad.”
“I suppose—you don’t think—you could ignore the instructions—and stay on a while?”
“WHAT?” Paul laughed. “Ignore an editor? That’s not exactly the way to keep one’s job.”
“But you said you didn’t like the job—that it was only a stopgap till you found a new play to direct?”
Suddenly Paul wondered if Rowden would give or lend him a few thousand pounds to stage a play, say a Shakespeare production, in London or New York. Perhaps Rowden would enjoy a flutter of that kind, with all the patronly contacts it would involve. Certainly Paul had no qualms about taking money from a rich man and probably losing most of it. The idea tempted, fascinated, then grew suddenly sour; and he heard his own voice, speaking as much to himself as to Rowden: “You bet I’d give up journalism if I could make a living in the theatre, but till I can—and I WILL—I have to do what the boss says.”
“I see. The boss. This man Merryweather.”
“Well, he pays me for writing the stuff.”
Rowden nodded, lit a cigarette, and pressed the bell. “Then we must tell Briggs about your packing. You haven’t time to catch the night boat, but there’s another sails at eight in the morning. Leave here about seven— Roberts will drive you to Kingstown. If you’ll excuse me, I won’t get up to see you off, but we must certainly drink a good wine this evening—to celebrate your Roman holiday. Not champagne, I think—that is for cocottes… but I have a rather special Burgundy…”
* * * * *
Dinner was gay; Rowden could be the most gracious of hosts, and Paul liked him almost feverishly now they were so soon to separate. Naturally much of their talk was of Rome and Italy. “I wish I were coming with you, Paul. To be with anyone when he first crosses the Alps, but you especially—a young American—tabula rasa… Who IS this man Merryweather? An editor, yes, I know that—but what sort of person—is he simpatico—does he have any idea of his power—to whisk you about the world—London—Dublin—Rome—to offer you, at the impressionable age, such unrivalled chances of experience— some lifetime friendship, maybe, or fate itself, in one guise or another? Or is it merely that he wants those little articles that you write with such deplorable skill?”
“Probably only that.”
“How unimaginative!”
“Well, he knows what he wants and he doesn’t care what _I_ want. I once asked him if I could do the drama criticism, but he said no—I knew too much, he was afraid I’d be highbrow.”
“Surely a strain, though, as it becomes harder for you to find subjects you know nothing about. Or perhaps it doesn’t?”
“That’s where travel helps. Widens the circle of ignorance. The unsophisticated viewpoint on Rome—I’ll get it, you see.”
“Rome might even make you FEEL unsophisticated. It has a unique society —or rather two societies, one based on the aristocracy and the other on the Vatican. I must give you some introductions.”
“Thanks—I’ll be the Iowa farm-boy amongst all that—it’ll suit Merryweather fine. Because in spite of Emily Post, America loves the guy who isn’t sure what knife and fork to use.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I try not to be TOO sure. And where finger-bowls are concerned I guard all my innocence. Haven’t you caught me at it?”
“No, but it fits well with your somewhat complex behaviour. You’re an exceedingly complex character—did you ever realize that? A certain charm, when you care to use it, hides your arrogance, and your arrogance hides your humility, and your humility hides… what, I wonder?… I don’t know, and nor do you—you can’t know—YET. Meanwhile if I can help you… I shall write a few letters you can take to Italy—Briggs will give them to you before you leave in the morning. They’ll be to quite influential people—but Mussolini isn’t among them, unfortunately. He’s something new in the Roman firmament since my day.”
“You know Rome well?”
“As a youth I lived there several years—-till soon after my father died. I was being trained for the priesthood.”
“And then you found you had no vocation?”
“To be less dramatic I found I had a brewery. My father had left it to my elder brother, but when HE died suddenly I got it… Of course you’re quite right—I couldn’t have had any real vocation.”
Paul thought this over and then said: “I suppose what you did proved it. And yet, isn’t it a bit too neat—that everything’s all for the best, whether you give up something or not? I’m lucky—I know what I’ll never give up, and anyone can put me to any test they like.” He checked himself, realizing that there was in all this an implied condemnation of the other, anxious also to avoid an exchange of confessions. He had a curious feeling that he and Rowden could understand each other if they tried, but he did not want to try; on the contrary, he felt embarrassed and evasive, as if he were discovered without a passport at a frontier. He said: “I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve been talking a lot of nonsense… Of course I’ll be glad to meet your friends, it’s very kind of you to suggest it, though I don’t know how long I’ll be in Rome. It all depends on Mussolini—”
“May I give you a word of advice?” Rowden leaned towards Paul across the table. “Just this. Let the big man talk. Don’t tell him what a fool he is if you can possibly avoid it.”
Paul was almost ready to resent this as a second return to an issue that had already been terminated, but with relief inside him now rising to enthusiasm, he found it possible to laugh heartily.
Rowden laughed too. “You know, Paul, I’ve been searching for a word to describe what’s the real trouble with you, and I think I’ve got it… you’re not WORLD-BROKEN.”
“WORLD-BROKEN? What’s that?… On the analogy of—”
“That’s it. You don’t care what you do—or where. And to continue the metaphor, you’ll end up shivering in an outdoor kennel instead of basking on the hearthrug in front of a warm fire.”
“Okay, Michael… So long as I have even the kennel, to hell with the hearthrug.” (It was the first and last time he ever called him Michael.)
“You’re probably still young enough to be able to make the choice. How lucky you are, indeed!”
* * * * *
Paul said his goodbyes in the corridor outside their bedrooms, and Rowden left him with a cordial invitation to visit Venton League again. Paul promised he would, though with a premonition that it would never happen. There was so much in the man that he liked and admired, and much too that he felt he could make use of—not in any sense of exploitation, but rather as part of the process of self-enlightenment. He wondered whether Rowden guessed that Venton League was the first house he had ever visited where dressing for dinner was routine and not show-off, where vintage wines were drunk ritually but not snobbishly, and where servants shined shoes and packed for guests. His own packed bag faced him now, and on top, where Briggs must have placed it as a reminder, lay the Martin Chuzzlewit from the city libra
ry. With that as a goad, the thought of Carey leapt at him unleashed and with extra strength because all day, it seemed, he had been holding it at bay. Now that he was alone the enormity of having cancelled the planned excursion sank in his mind with an effect of sickness. He contemplated the possibility that he would never see her again, that Rowden and Merryweather had between them set an end to the relationship, the one with a touch of forethought and the other unwittingly, while he himself had weakly acquiesced.
He knew he could not sleep with such thoughts in his mind. He paced the room, staring at the furniture, the pictures, anything that might stir some feeble counter-interest. Suddenly he saw the volume of Rowden’s verses on his bedside shelf, hard to miss if he had ever before given the books any attention. He sat on the edge of the bed and read a few pages. The title was “Leaves”, it had been privately printed, and there was no publication date. He soon decided that Rowden’s low estimate of its worth (however insincere) was the plain truth. It was interesting, though, as a clue to the man’s tastes and personality. Somewhat in the style of Swinburne or Baudelaire —perhaps written as long ago as that, when their kind of writing was in vogue. Paul re-read a few of the poems and tried to decide on an adjective for them. ‘Unpleasant’ would never have entered his mind had not Rowden laid such stress on the word; as it was, with an idea thus implanted, Paul diagnosed here and there a sort of strained morbidity, perhaps considered decadent at one time, but nowadays merely outmoded. Of course the items in Latin and Greek were beyond him. Having skimmed the book through (it was very short) he put it aside and forgot it was his own property, Rowden having inscribed it for him; so that the next day, after he had gone, its presence still at the bedside conveyed a far more crushing verdict than any he had formulated. Though he never knew this, it was the reason why Rowden did not reply to several letters Paul sent him during the next few weeks; and, indeed, it was the end of their fleeting contact.
Next, and in some sense as an antidote, he picked up Chuzzlewit and turned to the American section; its sheer readableness diverted him for a few moments, but all the time he was imagining what Carey might have thought of America and Americans whilst reading it. Perhaps he should write her a letter to go back with the book; Briggs could mail them to the theatre the next day. He went to a desk and filled several sheets of notepaper, chiefly about Chuzzlewit; it was his first letter to her, indeed, except for the mere note he had sent with the roses. Then he noticed that the inside of the book-cover contained a library card with her address in Terenure, and an idea was born in him that speedily rose to huge dimensions. For he knew now where she lived, where she was at that moment—and she had said it was less than a mile away. Why shouldn’t he walk over to her house before going to bed and make his own delivery of the book and the letter? Of course she would be asleep at such an hour, but he could come close to her for a moment, perhaps for the last time, and she would later know that he had been there. It was odd how satisfying that was to him as he contemplated it.
Venton League was locked and bolted, but the garden door had a simple latch, and he knew there was a side gate several hundred yards from the house that led through unused stables and another gate into a road. He also knew the general direction of Terenure, but that was all. Fortunately he soon met a late-homing tram-driver who directed him to the address. As he approached it he heard, in the very far distance, the crackle of rifle shots. It spurred him, matching his own feeling of excitement in what he was doing— walking at this late hour (and he disliked walking at any hour) through the unknown streets of an unknown city. A mysterious schizophrenic city, he reflected, passing the suburban villas one after the other, each one dark and silent, while a few miles away on roof-tops a handful of zealots risked their lives to make history. He could not help thinking of it theatrically— the vast populous inertia of the sleeping suburbs as a background to the silhouette of the lone man wide awake with a gun. The idea fascinated, then grew larger as he tried to imagine the play whose staging he had already pictured with the eye of his mind. He had no political intelligence, but for that reason he sometimes caught a whiff of events that the analysts and short-range tipsters missed.
When he reached the house he was surprised to see lights in several of the windows, both upstairs and down. He walked up the short path to the porch and dropped both book and note in the letter-box as quietly as he could. But someone must have heard, for before he reached the street again the front door opened and Carey’s voice called out: “Who is it?” Her voice sounded curious rather than startled. He turned back a few paces into the zone of light from the doorway; then she came rushing out to him with an eagerness equally curious. “PAUL!… Won’t you come in?” That startled HIM. She almost dragged him into the house, leading the way to a small room opening off the narrow lobby—a den, it could have been called, with an old fashioned roll-top desk, shabby chairs, and of all things, a complicated gymnastic apparatus of ropes and pulleys. He felt again the overmastering physical ease of being in her presence, the relief of finding her eager to see him despite the fiasco of the cancelled trip; but in addition there was a strangeness he was just faintly aware of, a tension in her face and attitude that he had not seen before.
He began rapidly: “You must think me crazy to be here this time of night, but the fact is, I’m leaving for London early tomorrow and I wanted to return the book… I wrote this note too—never thought I’d see you… nothing important in it—mostly about the book.”
“The book?”
“Martin Chuzzlewit… don’t you remember?”
She answered, almost dreamily: “I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”
“That was in the book, too—on a library card.”
“A LIBRARY book? Oh yes, I do remember… Would you—would you care for a drink?”
“Thanks, no—I’ll have to be going in a minute. Must have some sleep. The boat sails at eight.”
“Why are you going away so soon?”
“My editor cabled me. I’ve got to do a job for him in Italy.”
“Italy? And before you’ve finished all you wanted to do here?”
“Looks like it. I certainly haven’t done much, have I? And I’m specially sorry about Glendalough.”
“That couldn’t be helped—you had the party instead. Was it interesting?”
“Very—but I was missing Glendalough all the time.” How untrue that was, and yet how revealing, even to himself, of the truth; for it was now, with her in that small room, that he was acutely missing something, of which Glendalough could well stand as a name and symbol. “If I’d guessed it would be my last chance, I don’t know but what—”
“Oh no, you couldn’t possibly. And it was just as well.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because…” She hesitated, then chattered on: “You’ll probably get to hear about it… no, you wouldn’t, though, if you’re leaving so soon. Anyhow, it’s nothing that affects you, but if we HAD gone to Glendalough it would have been worse… for me.”
“For YOU?”
“I’m sorry—it’s my fault for not getting to the point…” She seemed to steady herself as if for the repetition of a lesson, then said in a level voice: “My stepfather died this morning.”
“WHAT?” He stared at her, disturbed by her look and manner as much as by what she had said. “Carey! Oh, I’m sorry… Had he been ill? You didn’t tell me… was it sudden?… But if you’d rather not talk about it…”
“I don’t mind… He was all right, early this morning—I saw him before he left for eight-o’clock mass at St. Peter’s—that’s the long mass. I went to the nine o’clock at St. Columba’s—that’s the short one. I was back here by half-past ten after meeting you, and I could see he was back, too, and had had his breakfast—then I heard the water running in the bath upstairs. The water’s never hot enough early in the morning, so on Sundays…”
She hesitated as if the details were becoming too trivial, and he made a murmur of encour
agement.
“Well, it became a sort of Sunday treat—he always stayed in the bath a long time and had his grammar books with him—he was learning Gaelic… After the water stopped running I heard him saying over the words… but he was there so long I began to wonder if anything was the matter, so I called out and knocked at the door, but there was no reply. Mrs. Kennedy—she’s the housekeeper we’ve had since my mother died— she said he’d been all right at breakfast—quite chatty and cheerful with her. But after a time I told her I was nervous, so we broke the lock and found him… in the bath… he was dead by then.”
She paused breathlessly and he made haste to offer the only comfort he could think of. “Carey, I know there’s nothing I can say that can really help, but of all the ways to die, it might have been the easiest—a fainting fit—suddenly—the hot bath on top of a meal— “
“No, I don’t think it was that.”
“Why… why not?”
“It wasn’t LIKE that.” She gave him a strained look.
“What did the doctor say?”
“He said what you said—more or less. But I still don’t think —”
“Did you tell him you didn’t?”
“No, I haven’t told anybody that—till now.”
“Carey, what’s on your mind?”
She said in a level voice again: “I think he killed himself.”
“But—how—why—what on earth makes you… Look here, you’d better tell me what really IS on your mind.”
She went on: “He had asthma sometimes. He took pills for it with opium in them, and the doctor told him never to take more than two at a time, no matter how bad the attack was. They were in a little bottle that he carried in his vest pocket. Today, when I looked, it was empty. He must have taken at least a dozen.”
“But how can you possibly know that? Didn’t the doctor ask about the pills?”
“No. It wasn’t the same doctor that gave him the prescription—that one left the district, and this is a new man who hadn’t seen him before.”