by James Hilton
“I’m sure it’s all right,” I said, taking them.
Mr. Small lit a cigarette for himself but did not offer me one this time. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to read through the entire transcript. Then you can tell me if there are any answers you wish to withdraw or qualify. And if everything’s correct, sign it. You really ought to have done that when you were here before.”
I read it, pretending to do so slowly so that I would have more time to think. It was curious and not at all reassuring to note how some of the questions now seemed far more challenging and my own answers far more evasive than I had thought at the time. But I said cheerfully in the end: “Okay. Where do I sign?”
“At the bottom of each page.” He handed me a pen.
After that was over he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and tilted back in the swivel chair. “And now, Miss Waring, what about the time you saw Bradley after 1936?”
I had myself under control.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“When was it?”
“The next year—1937.”
“The year you said you and your parents returned to America?”
“Yes, but….”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
“Please tell me what you were going to say.”
“All right. I was going to say that all the statements I made were actually and literally correct. I did return with my parents to America in 1937, but later in the year I went back. And I didn’t see Bradley again in London. You didn’t ask me if I saw him again anywhere?”
“Wouldn’t it have been natural for you to tell me? Unless of course you weren’t anxious for me to find out.”
“If you’d been anxious to find out you’d have asked me.”
“Maybe I was more anxious to find out whether you were being altogether frank.”
“I’m not on oath to be frank. I’m on oath to tell the truth—”
“—the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” he finished for me. “Have you had a legal training?”
“No.”
“Then you probably aren’t aware of the narrow difference between suggestio falsi and suppressio peri.”
I was but I chose not to say so. Either he didn’t think writers knew much or else he didn’t know I was a writer; the first might have been less personally unflattering, yet I hoped it was the latter because I could excuse him more easily.
He went on: “Well, no need to argue. Perhaps I can save time by referring to a few notes I have.” He consulted them. “I see you were in Vienna in 1937. Bradley was also in Vienna then…. Now let’s begin from there, shall we?”
I tried to absorb the shock and perhaps succeeded. “Certainly. There’s no secret about any of it. But I still don’t like your saying it would have been natural for me to volunteer information. It isn’t as if we’d both been having a friendly chat.”
That was a mistake. He said: “If you’d rather chat than answer questions, do so by all means. Chat about the time you met Bradley in Vienna.”
But of course it was next to impossible with that shorthand girl at my elbow; the words fizzled out like a car stalling; I had to press the starter again and again. Finally came the full stop, then silence. I think all I said was: “My father was in Europe on business—I was with him—he had to pass through Vienna, and while I was there I naturally took the opportunity to look up an old friend. He was working in some laboratory. We only met for an hour or so.”
“What work was he doing in this laboratory?”
“I don’t know exactly. Probably the same sort of thing he did in London … physics … mathematics … whatever it was.”
The second full stop. Presently: “Did you meet any of his friends in Vienna?”
“No.”
“Do you think he liked working there?”
“He seemed to.”
“Did he speak German?”
“Not very well.”
“How do you think he got on with the people he was working with?”
“I don’t know. I expect if you work in a laboratory you have to get on with the others or else quit.”
“He didn’t take you to visit the laboratory?”
“No.”
“Or suggest it?”
“No. There wasn’t time, anyway.”
“Where was he living?”
“In rooms. Somewhere near the East Station, I believe. I didn’t go there.”
“Was he very busy?”
“I imagine so.”
“And so far as you could judge he was satisfied with his position?”
“Oh yes.”
“Would you say it was a better job than the one he had had in London?”
“He said it gave him more time for research, which was what he wanted to do.”
“I understand the London University people were sorry to let him go. Did you know that?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me.”
“Did he ever complain that he didn’t get enough time for research in London?”
“He never complained of anything. Not to me.”
“So you can’t think of any particular reason why he might have preferred the Vienna job?”
“Perhaps he wanted a change of scene, but that’s only a guess.”
“I’d rather you tell me what you know.”
“But I don’t know. It’s so many years ago, for one thing.”
He looked me over in a way I didn’t quite like. “Eight years ago. So that trip to Vienna doesn’t stand out very importantly in your life?”
“Hardly. My father and I were only there a couple of days.”
“But what about the next visit … in 1938?”
I don’t think I succeeded in disguising much of the shock then. I said, when I was ready: “So you know about that too?”
He made a grimace that was almost a smirk. “You bet. But you’d have gotten around to chatting about it sooner or later, I’m sure.”
I decided to be brazen. “No, perhaps I wouldn’t. I can’t see the reason for all this questioning. I’m the sort of person you’d get far more out of if you’d tell me what it’s all for. And also where Bradley is now.”
He began doodling on a scratch pad. “I don’t think you quite appreciate your position, Miss Waring…. However, we might as well call a halt for this afternoon.” He signaled to the shorthand girl, who thereupon closed her book and crossed the room to a typing table. “Have Miss Waring sign that before she leaves.”
He got up, concentrated his glance on my left thigh, and said: “Going away, then?”
I looked down and saw that the airline envelope containing my ticket was sticking halfway out of my coat pocket. Perhaps he thought it proved how honest I was, for when I merely said “Yes” he didn’t ask me where I was going or seem particularly interested. He shook hands with me before he went out.
That girl took half an hour to do the job. She was so slow I was tempted to offer to do it myself except that I knew she wouldn’t let me. I smoked and chafed at the delay and read the only literature lying loose in the office—a 1945 World Almanac and a book called This Man Truman which was all about that man Truman.
* * * * *
It’s partly a wartime neurosis, maybe, the feeling that Uncle Sam is always stern and monitory, and that any of his official inquiries can only be directed towards somebody’s undoing. But it’s also an American (and for that matter a British) tradition that you do not have to be afraid of your own government if you have done no wrong. Thus, as I left Mr. Small’s office for the second time, I realized how unco-operative I had been again, but I was not in the least scared on my own account—though that may partly have been due to a family background of wealth and security. When I was a child it really mattered to be a Waring, and I was fortunately grown-up before I realized it could also be a handicap.
I was, however, a little bit scared on account of Brad. That he had got h
imself in a jam of some sort seemed obvious, and I wanted to help him, whatever it was, but without exactly perjuring myself. Of course if he turned out to be guilty of something serious my attitude might have to change, but so far I hadn’t been allowed to discover anything. This gave me a sort of alibi; even if Brad were guilty of anything serious I could give him every benefit of every doubt so long as I was myself kept in these doubts.
Throughout the plane journey to California that night I kept turning over question and answer in my mind. I wondered if I had been merely cautious, or so overcautious that I had actually made things worse. How much did Mr. Small already know about Brad in Vienna?… I tried to sleep, and between Chicago and Kansas City succeeded; but after that the climb to high altitude wakened me and I stared for miles out of the window. We were flying through cloud, and all I could see was a part of the wing, shimmering like a silk dress with silver buttons; there must have been a moon, but the effect was of pale air, infinite, shadowless. Gradually I dozed off again, and then Vienna came back to me, eager to be remembered, over the wastelands of New Mexico.
* * * * *
I went there with my father in the summer of ‘37. Earlier in the year I had returned to London after a short trip to America, and had failed to pass the examination that was the first step to a history degree. I don’t know quite why, beyond the obvious reason that I didn’t get enough marks; I had studied fairly hard, and am not exactly stupid, but perhaps I am also not a good examinee—if a question interests me, I spend too much time on it, so that I have to rush through some of the others. The only relevance my failure has here is the effect it had on my father; it made him just slightly aloof, as if I had told him a risque story he had heard before. My mother’s attitude (by letter) was to ignore the whole thing completely. She had lost her interest in educational attainments since Brad’s departure, and I never heard that she ever attended a physics lecture again.
My father’s business would take him to several European countries, so he picked me up in London when term ended and we made a tour that included Paris, Berlin, and Rome. We flew most of the way, were given parties and receptions, and met various people of political and financial importance. Being the first time I had traveled alone with him as a social equal, it proved an exciting experience for a nineteen-year-old. In Rome he learned he would have to go to Budapest, and only this chance put Vienna on our itinerary. We stayed a night at the Bristol, and after some trouble the next morning I managed to telephone Brad at his laboratory and ask him over to lunch. His voice was calmer than mine and he told me he couldn’t ever lunch so far from his work, because it would take up more than the hour he permitted himself, but if we cared to sample a local restaurant he would be pleased to entertain both of us.
This sounded chilly, and when in due course I saw the place I was glad my father had excused himself at the last moment. It was a pavement cafe on the Mariahilfer Strasse, crowded and rather dingy, the outside tables occupied by unshaven furtive men who looked as if they were plotting revolution but were probably only watching for some girl. Brad waved from an inner table as I entered; he seemed well enough at home there. He was cordial, rather detached, and said he was sorry my father couldn’t come, sorry also our stay was so short (I had told him on the telephone we were leaving for Budapest that afternoon), and sorry especially about the hour limit for lunch. It was some scientific equipment that had to be constantly tended, otherwise of course he could and would have got away for longer. The explanation took the sting out of his behavior, and I gave him a look that told myself that I still liked him. Then the proprietor came up with a greasy typewritten menu, everything very cheap, and I realized how far Brad had developed from the shy boy who had timidly asked me to suggest some expensive London hotel where he could wine and dine my parents in the style to which they were accustomed. Obviously now he took the view that what was good enough for him was good enough for anybody, and on the whole I approved the change, though it would doubtless show itself truculently till he got used to it. He seemed much more than six months older to me, but that again was likable; it gave the impression of an adult process, a maturing of personality, nothing to cause worry about what had “happened” to him. I commented that he did not drink or smoke, but he said he did sometimes, an occasional cigarette or glass of beer. “And it’s uncommonly good beer in Vienna,” he assured me, as if he had been a connoisseur of beer in many other cities; it was almost reassuring to find that his naďveté, though disappearing, was still there in patches.
The food was not bad for its price, and I noticed that he got special attention from the waitress who served us and who talked to him familiarly in German. His own replies were halting, and he said he made a point of practicing on her as much as possible, because textbook German, which he could read quite well, was so heavy and uncolloquial.
All in all, he looked settled and by no means unhappy, and after what had been in my mind as a possibility I was much relieved. He also said, when I asked, that his work was making progress, though of course it had so far hardly more than begun.
“And how do you like Framm?”
“He’s remarkable. His sort of mathematics is beyond anything I could have dreamed of.”
“So he’s teaching you?”
“He’s giving me time to learn. He has to, before I can be of any use to him. It’s like a new language—in fact, that’s what it really is.”
“And what about him being of use to you?”
“Naturally that goes with it. I can’t ever be grateful enough to your father for giving me such a chance.”
“You still haven’t told me how you like him, though. Framm, I mean.”
“He can be very charming.”
“But do you like him?”
“Well enough. And it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t. He’s the sort of man you don’t have to like.”
I said I didn’t know what kind of man that was.
He laughed and said: “All women like him, anyhow.”
“That’s still not an answer.”
“All right … let’s change the subject. How’s Hampstead?”
“Fine…. Do you still manage to get your long Sunday walks?”
“I’ve been to the Semmering several times. That’s not far away. Very beautiful country.”
“And altogether you’re quite happy in Vienna?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, that’s fine too.” We sat over coffee and I told him about my failure to pass the examination. He sympathized. “But you’ll try again next year?”
“If I’m still in London. I don’t have any exact plans. I’m beginning to think I’d like to earn a living.”
“How?”
“That’s the trouble. Journalism maybe. I’d like to get on a paper but the fact that my father controls one inhibits me. I’ve a feeling I’d either be favored or else never be given credit even if I deserved any. Perhaps I could change my name.”
“The easiest way to do that would be to get married.” It was the sort of remark he couldn’t possibly have made a year before, but there was still naivete in it—a small boy’s approach to intimacy.
I said: “Yes, if there were anyone I wanted to marry.”
“Isn’t there?”
“Not at present…. What about you? Any nice Fräuleins?”
“Plenty, if I had time for them.” But he said it now with a smile and felt the need to add: “I’m serious—I don’t have the time, I work ten hours a day as a rule.”
“And then go home and dream mathematics?”
“Often.”
He looked at his watch, paid the check, and signaled a taxi for me on the pavement outside. “Where do you live?” I asked, detaining him.
“Near the East Station. About the same kind of place I had in London, but the plumbing makes a different kind of noise. A Viennese noise.”
“That ought to be quite musical.”
He laughed. “You could come and hear it if you were staying
longer, but since you’re leaving today—”
“Yes, it’s too bad. I wish I weren’t, but this is just a flying visit— literally. I must try to manage another trip.”
“And your mother—she’s not with you?”
“No, she’s in Maine. I don’t think she’ll get across this year—she probably thinks she owes America a summer.”
“Well, remember me to your father.”
“Of course. And you remember me to the charming Professor.”
“I will…. And have a good time in Budapest. I’ve not been there, but they say it’s well worth seeing.”
“I’ll let you know,” I cried, out of the taxi window. “Good- by——”
* * * * *
I did let him know, in a chatty letter, which rather to my surprise he answered, and for the next six months we corresponded fairly regularly, though at longer intervals. They weren’t interesting letters, except one. He usually mentioned the weather, any particular walk he had taken, the fact that he was still very busy, and his progress with German. No reference ever to theaters or concerts or operas. He might have been living in a village instead of one of the world’s gayest capitals. Actually he had reverted to the sort of life he had had before meeting my mother, except that the background was different and he himself stood bigger in the foreground. But once he wrote, quite exceptionally and rather astonishingly:
Scientists in movies and magazine ads are always shown examining test tubes as if on the brink of some great discovery, but I guess the outside world doesn’t know how rarely one ever discovers anything, the road to the frontier is already so long and difficult, and when you get there you feel rather lonely and undramatic like someone who finds himself off the trail on a mountain at night, with just a small flashlight and an average amount of nerve. I can’t push the metaphor any further because the mountaineer only wants to find the trail again, whereas the scientist wants—well, what does he want? (You remember that argument with Julian Spee?) Anyhow, if he gets it, even the smallest fragment of it, then there comes a moment of sheer exhilaration comparable, I suppose, to what an artist feels when he knows he’s done something good. Next comes the doubting period, the check and countercheck, and- -as often as not—the disappointment. It wasn’t new after all. Or else it wasn’t true. And the reason I’m writing all this is that today, I think for the first time, I’ve had that exhilaration without, so far, the disappointment. Of course that may come tomorrow. It’s just a few lines of equations—a trifle, most people would think, to get so excited about. But if it stands up after all the tests it will get, especially from Framm, then I’m an inch or so into the unknown. That’s all. I didn’t feel like celebrating at first, but I went into the streets for a breath of fresh air, and the sight of all the people concerned with other things—chiefly politics, these days—made me feel aloof and rather pitying, until I realized how they’d pity me if they knew the hours I work and what sort of a life I have. So I turned into that little restaurant we had lunch at and drank a couple of beers. There happened to be a man there who likes chess, and we played till two A.M., which was about an hour ago, and that’s the full extent of my celebration. Not very thrilling, perhaps?