It came much later, about nine o’clock, and he had waited in the bedroom all the time, not caring to go out for dinner—having no appetite, he discovered, and as time passed, not even the inclination to read. He lay on the bed and wondered what was still happening to him—a new experience, and he had always thought he would welcome one, whatever it was; yes, he DID welcome it; all over the world there must be millions of young men concerned, as he was, about a girl; reassuring to find himself like so many others… or WAS he? Suppose someone were to offer him there and then a play to direct, a great play, wouldn’t that have power to preoccupy, to excite, to thrust everything else out of his mind? Wouldn’t it? Or would it? After her first words—“Paul, is that you?”—he knew the answer; by God yes, it’s I, it’s me, bring on the play, bring on a thousand plays, here I am, Paul Saffron, you haven’t heard of me yet, but you will, you WILL…
“Carey… Where are you?”
“I didn’t know when you’d arrive—I’ve only just got here myself —the train was late… Oh, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice again.”
“It IS? YOU feel like that too?… Carey, I… I’ve so many things to ask… Where’re you staying? How long will you be in London? I want to see a lot of you… I do hope you won’t be busy all the time…”
“As much as you want—it’ll be several days at least. I’m staying with an aunt at Putney.”
“PUTNEY?”
“That’s not far out. About an hour… Oh no, I’m not there yet—I’m at the station—Euston—I told you—I’ve only just arrived—”
“EUSTON?… Then what are we wasting time like this for? Just across the street! Listen, Carey—under the clock in the station hall… got that?… A couple of minutes…”
He hung up, raced down the stairs rather than ring for the crawling lift, and on his way across the lobby called out to the clerk in sheer exuberance: “Yes, I’m American—what do I have to do—register with the police or something?”
“No, sir—just for our records. Was that the call you were expecting?”
He snapped out a “You bet” that was lost in the segments of the revolving door.
Crossing the Euston Road (and it was drizzling with rain as it had been so many times before), he thought of Dante’s saying that the bitterest of all pangs was to remember happier days; put that in reverse and it was equally true, for there was actual relish now in thinking of the war year that he had spent so safely and drearily in London. Not that it had been London’s fault; he had liked the people and the city too, so far as it belonged to them in his mind and not to the associations of army life. That he had hated, utterly and absolutely, more probably than he would or could hate anything else in life. The little square where the hut had been was now just a square again, rain-drenched lawns covering so much drab and unrecorded experience; he could still call back the smell of that interior, its mixture of stale smoke, gas heaters, chewing gum, human sweat. Men had swarmed in continuously from the great near-by terminals—Euston, St. Paneras, King’s Cross; and it had been his job (the snob job, given him because of his better education, forsooth!) to handle the officers, telling them where they had been allotted rooms, what to see in London during a few days’ leave, the best shows, where to find the best women. (Much joking about that, especially from an angle neither flattering to him nor true about him—but what could he do, or say? So he had joined in the laughs, Pagliacci-style.) It was all so ‘cushy’, to use the overworked British adjective then current—‘cushy’ to sit out the war in London with a telephone in one hand and filing cabinets within reach of the other—practically a hotel clerk in uniform, humorously servile, falsely jocular. He and a dozen other clerks took turns at the job, day and night; they fed at a canteen and slept on army cots in a commandeered boarding-house in Southampton Row. They had varicose veins, weak hearts, hernias; he had his pituitary trouble. They were decent fellows, and he tried to conceal from them his passionate hope that when the war was over he would never see any of them again. Once or twice there were air raids, spicing the routine with excitement rather than danger—Zeppelins like silver cigars in the blue-black sky. On his time off he wandered all over London, visiting museums and art galleries, but his secret contempt for the who, what, and when of military life made him fumble into all kinds of trouble about dress and saluting. He got to know a few girls, one of whom, chance-met in the next seat at a concert, became a friend until she had waited for him once outside the army office and been shocked by overheard badinage. Neither of them had had enough importance to the other to be able to think it merely funny. He had made one man friend also, an English policeman who sometimes idled into the office at nights for a chat over the stove. The policeman had a sister in Alberta and a romantic feeling about America as a whole. He took Paul several times to supper at his little house near the Angel, Islington. Paul liked him from the moment he had said: “If I ‘ad your job, mate, I’d shoot meself. ‘Avin’ to put up with all them jokes from them officers and no chawnce to answer back—it’s worse’n bein’ a bloody bar-tender. Specially when they all think you’ve got it so cushy.” It was true; he knew how he was envied by some of the men on their way to the Front, and how little they guessed there could be any way in which he envied them. Yet he did, and then he didn’t, so many times; there had been conflict, even in those days, between physical distaste (fear, too, but no more than anyone else had) and a mental longing to put himself to the test, to find out if he could face what other men faced.
And now, four years later, he entered Euston Station, happily remembering how miserable he had been.
* * * * *
As soon as he saw her he knew that their relationship was on a different level, established at the house in Terenure that night, but since fortified by time, absence, and—who could say?—perhaps by a telepathy of awareness between them. She rushed up to him in the station hall and laughed her first words above the din of porters and luggage trucks. “Oh, Paul—Paul—I never dreamed I’d see you so soon—I didn’t know how to answer your letters at first—they sounded so cold, as if you didn’t want to see me again, but then when you said you did— “
“Carey, I did—I do—I’ve missed you—in such an extraordinary way. Carey, you look unbelievable… Had dinner? No? Nor have I. This aunt of yours in Putney can wait… Where’s your luggage? Just the one bag? We’ll take it along, then.”
They drove to a small French restaurant in Lisle Street that he knew of —quiet, informal, expensive. He had economized by staying at the Ellesmere, but now he would be extravagant—he would ask Merryweather for more work, would write a hundred articles, would interview Lenin, Gandhi, Bernard Shaw, Suzanne Lenglen—the whole who’s who of the world. That was his mood as he consulted the menu. Normally he was no gourmet, and his appetite was voracious rather than fastidious. But now he suddenly hankered after delicacies—terrapin, caviare, frogs’ legs—careless of how they mixed or what they cost; and it was she, in tune with his emotion yet thinking of his pocket-book, who talked him out of the wilder whims. Eventually he compromised on smoked salmon, poulet en casserole, and a bottle of Heidsieck—forgetting that Rowden had called champagne a wine for cocottes. And meanwhile they talked almost antiphonally, as if their respective concerns matched each other—his failure in Rome, her own bereavement in Dublin; the Magic Flute in Paris, a new play at the Abbey in which (sure enough) she had been offered the fourteen-year-old part. But she had had to turn it down in order to come to London. She didn’t care— any more than he cared about Merryweather’s disappointment. It was one of the few times in his life he had found anyone who could talk as much as he did without seeming to interrupt or to wait anxiously for chances to butt in; a musical simile again occurred to him—that they were somehow improvising on a keyboard of speech while their underlying thoughts made deeper harmony in what was left unsaid.
Over the coffee he remembered that aunt of hers. “Carey, hadn’t you better telephone you’ll be late?”
/> “She doesn’t know I’m coming at all till I do telephone.”
“She doesn’t? Oh, fine. Then we don’t have to worry, except that if the old lady goes to bed early—”
“She’s not old. She’s not much older than I am.”
“No?”
“My mother was the eldest of fifteen and Sylvia’s the youngest. She’s married to a landscape gardener. They have three children and I don’t know how many dogs—they breed them—wire-haired terriers all over the place. It’s good for children to live in an atmosphere like that. They’ve won any amount of prizes. The dogs, I mean.” She made a grimace. “All this must be so enthralling to you. Now tell me things like that about your own life—I wish you would—I hardly know anything about you.”
“You know all that matters.”
“Ah, yes, but tell me something that doesn’t matter for a change.”
“You mean I’m too serious? I talk too much about my ambitions?”
“Darling, no—how could you—to me? Our ambitions are so alike—”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Acting’s a completely different function from —”
“I dare say it is.” She began to giggle. “I wouldn’t argue about it for the world. Oh, Paul, you’ve got to humour me—I want some personal thing—about your childhood, schooldays, family—any little detail—”
He looked at her, stern at first because of the note of raillery in her voice, as if she were daring to be amused by him. Then he softened, as one who can indulge a whim out of some deeper geniality of the spirit; he didn’t really mind her laughing at him; his tolerance of that had been set at their first meeting.
He said: “Not much to tell, Carey. I was born in Reedsville, Iowa. Small town. I went to grade school there. Then to high school and Iowa State University. My father was a farmer. He came from Pennsylvania— Pennsylvania-Dutch stock—Germany before that. My mother’s still living—she’s in Milwaukee with my brother and his wife. That’s about all there is. I have no other brothers and sisters.”
“And no girl? You don’t have a girl in America? I don’t know why I never asked that before.”
“I don’t have a girl anywhere.”
“You say that either forlornly or proudly. Which is it?”
“Neither. Just a fact. To tell you the truth, I—I don’t seem to score very heavily with the other sex—as a rule—except as friends. At least I haven’t so far.”
“So far,” she echoed. “That’s not very far.”
He went on hurriedly: “How about you? I expect you’re popular enough with all kinds of men.”
“Some kinds. But I don’t know many—even as friends. You can’t, when you’re only free one evening a week. They won’t put up with that.”
“Nonsense! If a man were to fall in love with you—hasn’t that ever happened?”
“Yes.”
“Well, did he object?”
“OBJECT?”
“To your work—to seeing you only one night a week?”
“He saw me every night. He was acting with me.”
“Oh, then it was simple for you—”
“No—it didn’t work.”
“Why not? Didn’t you love him?”
“I thought I did at the time. Perhaps I did. But it wasn’t a success.”
He asked sharply: “Why not? What happened? Which of you broke it off?”
“Oh, Paul…” She began to laugh. “You suddenly get so—so pouncy —like a prosecuting counsel—as if I were on trial— “
“Well, I’m curious. You were curious about me—you asked for something personal. What went wrong in this affair you had with this man?”
“It wasn’t an affair—at least not THAT kind of affair. Perhaps that’s why it went wrong. He wanted it to be.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why? Moral reasons?”
“Partly. Maybe.”
“Because you’re a Catholic?”
“Maybe.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“The way you’re cross-examining me I don’t feel too sure of anything. You’d make a terrifying lawyer.”
“I’m sorry. And I think you were quite right to refuse—at seventeen… Though it’s none of my business.”
“It isn’t really, is it? And I was sixteen then… But it’s my fault, I admit—I began all this questioning…”
“No, MY fault—I’m much too inquisitive. SIXTEEN! Good God!”
“Now tell me if YOU’VE ever been in love.”
“ME? Why… Why, yes… hundreds of times.”
“That’s like saying never.”
“Carey, I assure you, I fall for every clever or beautiful woman I meet —you mustn’t think because I’m not a Casanova that there’s anything about me that’s—that’s AGAINST women. It’s just that—well, I suppose I’m not quite the type for these headlong passions, though no doubt one of them will come along some day and bowl me over completely— “
“How convenient to have it come along like that! Nothing for you to do but just wait.”
“No, that’s not my attitude, because—really—I should like —very much—to—to…” He began to colour, then looked at his watch and laughed. “NOW who’s cross-examining?”
“It’s my turn again—isn’t that fair? Besides, it’s good for both of us. Wouldn’t you like us to get to know each other really well?”
“Of course I would.” He signalled the waiter and asked for more coffee. She said relaxingly: “Oh, I’m so glad you did that. When you looked at your watch I thought you were going to say it was time we were leaving.”
“It is, but I don’t mind.”
“Nor do I, though I haven’t an idea how to get to Putney if I miss the last train.”
“We’ll take a taxi.”
“WE? But you needn’t bother to—”
“I certainly wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone at this time of night —I don’t know how far the place is or what it’s like—it’s absurd for you to think of—”
“All right—all right—I give in.”
The waiter refilled their cups. She said after a little silence: “I’m finding you unbelievable too. When do you have to go back to America?”
“When the cash runs out. Not that I have any there except what I earn, so perhaps I could starve in London just as well… I’m kidding—I know I won’t starve. I can always write something. I’m not a bad writer. Not REALLY good, but not bad either.”
“I wish you were going to direct a play here.”
“I wish I were going to direct a play ANYWHERE.”
“But here especially, then you could give ME a chance.”
She had said that jauntily, so he answered in the same vein: “And you’re quite positive I’d do that?”
“Yes, because you said just now you were curious about me, and I think you’d be curious to find out what you could make of me.”
“I KNOW what I could make of you.” The boast startled him by its promptness, then appalled him a little when he gave it a second thought.
“I half believe you, Paul.”
He said, continuing the joke: “And the other half I resent. Still it’s good to know you’d even be willing to stay in London if you were offered enough inducement—say Candida or Desdemona, with your name in lights and a thumping salary.”
“You don’t really think I’m as arrogant as you, do you?”
“So you think _I_ am?”
“You have to be. You couldn’t make anything of me—or even of yourself—unless you were… See, I do understand you a bit. Will the cash last a week—or ten days perhaps?”
“Could YOU stay too? How soon will your business with the lawyer be finished?”
“Darling, there isn’t any lawyer. I didn’t really have to come to London at all. Now you know.”
He felt an unclassifiable emotion for a second, sharp and intense; then he diagnosed it as sheer pleasure and took ext
ra pleasure in so doing. “So you wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see you? That makes us quits. But why invent an excuse?”
“In case you felt burdened with responsibility for bringing me here. In case you’d changed your mind about me again. You do change your mind. First you like me—then you think because I’m a girl you can’t like me. Or else you don’t want to dare to like me, or don’t dare to want to like me, or something. So I thought if that were to happen you might feel better if I had another reason for coming.”
He said seriously: “That was very considerate of you.”
Because in a way he knew it was, and he was impressed; he was also aware that their whole conversation since meeting had been a succession of moods on both sides, never clashing but never identical, as if they were both breathlessly sparring for position in some game that had as yet scarcely begun and might turn out to be not entirely a game.
He added: “But you’ve told me now. You’ve burned your boats. Or burned mine. Which is it?”
“I don’t know. But I promise you this—if you do change your mind again I’ll go back to Dublin without any fuss.”
“That’s a threat, not a promise. And all this about changing my mind —I’m not so fickle—it’s only that I’m a bit scared when I remember other times I’ve tried…” What he really meant but would not exactly say, was that his few previous affairs had disappointed him as aesthetic experiences while at the same time they had satisfied him as biological demonstrations. “And that’s why… with you… the closer I get to knowing you the more I like you, and therefore the more… the more I want to take care not to have anything spoil the relationship. Like betting on the same number—the oftener you win, the more amazing it is, and the more nervous you get about doubling the stakes.” He stirred restlessly, then forced a laugh. “Far too subtle, all this. The really worst fate for any human relationship is to be analysed to death.”