by A. J. Cronin
‘When at last, perforce, the recital was over, though all would have wished it to continue, every living being in that magnificent salon, not excepting our beloved Sam himself, stood up and took Desmonde to their hearts with a prolonged standing ovation. Not since Caruso took the U.S.A. by storm has such a voice been heard in America, the equal or, dare one say, yes one dares, the superior of the great Italian maestro.’
Lots more of this followed, lusher and lusher, and I read every word of it, forced to confess that as one horrendous superlative followed another, so did the warmth round my heart expand. Full credit to the little Trumpeter, but I had helped, in my own way, helped to rescue this splendid talent from despair and hopelessness.
We were now pounding over the metals at a steady pace. I wrapped myself in my coat and, as the seat in front of me was empty, I put up my feet and went to sleep.
This train was, in reality, a penance after the luxury of the Super Chief. But I have a strange masochistic streak which makes me welcome sufferings and tribulations, provided I have the ability to endure them: suffer in silence has, in my view, always been an admirable admonition.
I shall therefore pass over my journey to Chicago with no other comment than that I was delivered safely to the New York express, which sped me to Penn Station with just enough time to board the Queen Mary, in which accomplishment I must again extol the virtue of travelling ‘light’.
My first action on board was to cleanse myself in a prolonged hot bath. I then asked the steward for the English papers. He brought me The Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail. From this selection I must steel myself to endure the critiques of my new novel. But first I was burning to find out whether news of Desmonde had percolated. And there indeed, on the front page of the Daily Mail, was a passable photograph of Desmonde, and the following embarrassing screed:
‘Young Irish tenor, Desmonde Fitzgerald, who, under the auspices of his friend, author Alec Shannon, hit Hollywood like a bomb last week, has now signed contracts to play the lead in The Young Caruso scheduled for immediate filming by Paramount. Only one slight snag: Fitzgerald reputedly sings better than Caruso!’
This was good news, in that it put the final hard, practical touch to our joint adventure. Frank Hulton would ensure that Desmonde’s contract was gilt-edged, in Frank’s terminology, a bonanza.
I did not feel like spoiling this good moment by turning directly to the literary pages. I thought, with despicable cowardice, that I would first take a little exercise. The windward side of the promenade deck was completely untenanted, the breeze blew fresh, and I set out to enjoy a fast walk. No ship was better fitted for such exercise than the beloved Queen – I cannot vouch for actual measurements, but the broad sweep of her promenade deck seemed almost as long as a football field.
The chief deck steward, in his cross-deck snuggery, had been watching me from time to time, with some amusement, and when I finally drew up beside him he said:
‘You’re a great walker, Mr Shannon, sir. I remember you well from a couple of years back, on the outward trip. My mate said you practically walked your way to New York.’
‘It’s because I’m nervous, steward.’
He laughed. ‘Never saw a fitter man. By the way, sir, I think it might interest you to take a slow walk down the port side.’
‘How so?’
‘We’re fairly light this trip and it’s not a sunny morning. But there’s about thirty passengers on the deck-chairs, and believe it or not, they’re nearly all reading the same book. Why not take alook?’
I took a look, moving slowly along the deck, and found that the steward was right. I walked back, to enjoy again a moment which, alone, was worth my long journey.
To the steward, who was smiling, I said sadly:
‘It’s hell! They’ve started giving them away already!’
Then I went down and, seated alone at my usual table, enjoyed a very excellent lunch. When I returned to my cabin I again turned, though reluctantly, to the papers. Suddenly, my eye was caught and held by a paragraph that put all thought of literary criticism out of my head.
‘DOUBLE FATALITY ON THE GOTTHARD
‘Early yesterday morning, an Italian couple, Signor and Signora Munzio, traversing the Gotthard Pass in a sports Alfa Romeo, were hurled to their deaths by a sudden freak ice-storm.
‘Signor Munzio, well known on this route as a fast and skilful driver, was warned of the danger on the Swiss side and strongly advised to take the tunnel train. But as the barriers were not yet up he persisted in an attempt to beat the storm; Alas, without success. Both bodies have now been recovered. The car is a total wreck.’
Chapter Eight
The news of Desmonde’s meteoric career was fully conveyed to us through the public press. His first film. The Young Caruso, was a spectacular international success, followed almost immediately by an equally successful Hollywood adaptation of Rigoletto. Meanwhile came records, records of operatic gems, of Irish songs, of love songs, sending Desmonde’s voice over the air and into a multitude of homes.
From Desmonde himself we heard only in short infrequent snatches, hurriedly written on postcards: ‘Working hard, here on location, and hating it‘, and again, ‘After three retakes under Klieg lights, how dark the world seems. I am worn out, but resolved to stay the course.’
I had begun to think that he had forgotten me and all that I had done for him when one afternoon, almost a year later, a huge metal-bound packing case was delivered to me at Mellington, the markings indicating that it had come from New York. With Dougal’s help I opened it in the barn and there, after innumerable wrappings had been removed, was a breath-taking Degas, at least five feet by four, Après le Bain, immediately recognisable as the Master’s late and best period, when he used colour unreservedly to offset the lovely nude female form stepping gracefully from her bath, an arm extended for the towel, handed by the maid.
Even Dougal was impressed as we both gazed at it in silence, my heart meanwhile beating like mad, with joy.
‘It must have cost a pretty penny, sir,’ he said, at last.
‘The earth, Dougal. It’s priceless, really. Far beyond my purse. And just the one picture I need for my collection.’
‘It’s a beautiful thing, sir. Even I can tell that. But,’ he looked at me slyly, ‘ what will the wee laddies say when you hang it up?’
‘They’ll just have to be educated up to it, Dougal.’ I laughed, fully aware of the comments that would be made in regard to the lady’s beautiful bottom.
When we got it to the house I sat down and wrote Desmonde a long rapturous letter, thanking him for his most wonderful gift and begging him to take time to write me fully. We had all heard of his successes, yet we knew nothing of him. I then gave him all the news I thought might interest him. I had recently had a visit from Madame Donovan, and could assure him that all was well with his little daughter. But Canon Daly had been ill and was on sick leave from St Teresa’s. My sons had made another sortie on the wallflower bed. I had begun a new novel which Nan was busy typing. My wife was now better after a, recent rather worrying attack.
I ended by again beseeching him to write to me unreservedly and soon.
I then sealed the letter and summoning Nan, who liked nothing better than a walk, we set off to the village to post it.
‘What do you think of the new masterpiece, Nanno?’
She thought for a moment, then said:
‘Very beautiful. But frankly, Maister, for me, it’s a little bit much.’
‘You would have preferred a view of Sleaford Parish Church?’
‘Yes, if painted by Utrillo.’
We both laughed. I took her arm and said:
‘Pictures apart, I’m terribly happy to have heard from Desmonde. Although I’ve a feeling that he is not happy.’
‘I’m sure he’s not.’
‘Why not?’
‘When he was a priest serving the Lord he was happy. Now he’s merely a servant of the American
Moving Pictures Industry.’
‘What a pity he ever met and loved that girl. I can’t speak ill of her, now she’s dead.’
‘The pity is that he was weak enough to fall for her. Love is quite a different cup of tea, Maister.’
‘Would you care to expound on the nature of that tender emotion, Professor?’
‘Certainly. I love you, and I am happy to think that you love me. But we both have the virtue, the strength, the decency, quite apart from our love of dear Mum, to remain chaste. Desmonde, the weakling, did not have that. Now he’s an outcast, blaming the Lord for what was entirely his own fault. He’ll never find peace until he flings himself down on his pretty face and begs for forgiveness.’
‘That’s exactly what an Italian padre said to me on the Cristoforo Colombo when I spoke to him of Desmonde.’
Now we were in the village. I stamped and posted the letter.
‘How about a coffee at the Copper Kettle? And one of these jolly good home-made gingerbread squares.’
‘Oh, good. And we’ll bring Mum some. She’s fond of that gingerbread.’
We walked home by the Canon’s walk, holding hands in silence.
My hope of an early reply from Desmonde was gradually dulled, I gathered from the popular weeklies that he was busy, beginning his third picture, and resigned myself to wait. And indeed, I heard nothing for a further three months, when I received the following long and extraordinary communication.
My dear Alec,
I have withheld my letters for so long simply because I have had nothing good to say. Indeed, my state of being has been so permanently depressed, troubled and unhappy that I have refrained from inflicting it upon you.
You know, I suppose, that the popular romantic conception of Hollywood is a myth, fostered by those to whom glamour is the catchword for box office receipts. I can now assure you that the actual life in the studios is a hard, grinding, incomparably wearing business where, under blinding white lights, one repeats, often many times, a single piece of action or dialogue that forms a minute part of the completed film, or, in the final analysis, may even be cut out altogether. When not on the spot, under these blinding lights, one sits in the big draughty studio, watching drearily, awaiting one’s turn to be called, or scanning the daily papers for news of the outside world. It is a dehumanising existence which drives many of the actors, if I may so call the puppets controlled by a megaphoned director, to nightly excesses that hit the headlines, adding lustre to the popular notion of a glorious, gilded existence.
But enough, all this was borne in on me when I started work on my first picture. I then decided that I would endure this unnatural life, an existence utterly barren of all that I had previously enjoyed and loved, for three years and no more. I would then have fulfilled my three-picture contract and acquired a large fortune that would enable me to disappear, suddenly and forever, from this hollow city of glittering make-believe.
So far I have succeeded in pursuing my intention, and Frank Hulton, one of my few friends in this wilderness, has advised me well, and most admirably managed my affairs. Frank keeps urging me to take up some form of relaxation, to play golf at Bel Air, or to join the Racquet Club at Palm Springs. He has even suggested that I pick myself a nice girl from the flock of lovely starlets, poor little play-things, who hang around me, hoping and hoping to be noticed and taken up for the break that would lead them to fame and fortune. Alas, they are out of luck with me. I have learned my lesson, and it was a bitter, bitter one. For this same reason I never, but never, go to parties.
How, then, do I spend such spare time as my overlords allow me? I live permanently in one of, the Beverly Hills cottages, where everything is done for me and I am free of all housekeeping worries. On my free days, I drive out to Malibu in my unostentatious Rover, park, then walk, walk for miles on Malibu Beach, that great wide stretch of sand on which the waves of the Pacific thunder endlessly: Few people use this stretch, far from the swimming beach and bathing huts, and I encounter only two regulars: Charles Chaplin, too enwrapped in his own genius to be conscious of anyone but himself, and a tall, strongly bunt man who walks slowly, reading, but who occasionally nods and smiles to me as we pass. These apart, one can find solitude, and here I walk, struggling with myself and with my own unhappy thoughts.
You know, of course, that I have abandoned all my religious beliefs, in the beginning from a sense of anger and resentment at the unjust punishment meted out to me for a fault not entirely my own. Now, anger fades after a time, so too does resentment, and I will now confess to you that I have several times, at first feebly and then more strongly, had the incentive to seek the quiet of the Church in Beverly Hills, which you yourself frequented, not for purposes of prayer but from a kind of curiosity to see how it would affect me, or if indeed it would in some way alleviate the inner ferment that churns, like a live thing, in my breast.
Now mark this. Alec, and you know that I am not and never have been, a liar. On three separate occasions when I approached the Church and climbed the steps with the intention of entering it, a frightful spasm took possession of me, I trembled, felt deathly sick and thought I must vomit but could not. Although unable to be physically sick, a stream of words issued from my lips. You know that I have never been addicted to the use of foul language. But these words were unbelievably foul, blasphemous and obscene. So violent were my spasms I thought I would have a fit, turned, and stumbled down the steps. Only when my feet were on the pavement of the public road did my agitation and vituperations cease. I felt the blood course back to my arms, my legs, in short, within a few moments I was myself again.
The first time this occurred I was not only alarmed, but so shaken that I made up my mind never to risk a repetition of the experience. Nevertheless, I was curious as to the nature of my attack and presently came to the conclusion that I had been the victim of a physical reaction, possibly cardiac in origin.
To test this theory I drove out to the summit of Bel Air. Here I parked the car, walked down hill for perhaps a hundred yards, turned, and set myself to climb this steep incline at top speed. When I reached my car I was slightly blown but no more than I would normally have expected.
I drove back to my cottage, thoughtful and indeed worried. I was certainly the victim of some strange phobia, connected with the Church in Beverly Hills. You will remember that I refused to accompany you to this particular Church.
For the next few weeks I was busy in the studio, faking my way through the love scenes in the Hollywood version of Aida. But on my first free Saturday I drove through the city of Los Angeles to the big new Catholic Church, off Sunset Boulevard. I parked the car and, calmly facing the Church, assured myself that I was sound in mind, and body, I then set my teeth and began to walk up the steps of the great Church.
My God, Alec, how can I write you of my experience, worse, much worse than before, so violent that I fell down in a fit, rolled down the steps and came to myself in the centre of a crowd, with a policeman supporting my head.
Fortunately he knew me and fully realised that I was cold sober.
‘You took a nasty toss, sir. And not the first here. They built these steps far too steep.’
I got to my feet, thanked him, and assured him that I was not hurt. But as I drove back to Beverly Hills I was deeply and profoundly worried.
In this mood I reported for work at the studio where I went through some fatuous love scene retakes with the leading lady who has for weeks been trying to get off with me.
On the following day, Sunday, I drove out to Malibu, walked far along the strand, and sat down to examine my situation. Without doubt I was, under certain conditions, no longer master of myself or of my actions. A phrase from a poem learned in childhood came to mind. ‘ He was the master of his soul.’ I was no longer master of my soul. And if so, what next was in store for me?
Crushed, and alarmed by this thought, I put my head between my hands, striving for self control. Without doubt I must seek advice. A doctor, a p
sychiatrist? I knew of no one.
At this moment I became aware that someone was speaking to me.
‘Are you ill? Can I be of assistance to you?’
The tall man whom I had often passed was bending towards me.
‘No… no, thank you. I’ll be all right in a minute.’
He looked at me doubtfully, then sat down beside me.
‘You are Desmonde Fitzgerald, are you not? The film star.’
I nooded silently. This was no beastly autograph hunter. He had a strong, lined, intellectual face. Suddenly I had a premonition that this was no chance encounter.
‘I enjoyed your first film. Partly because I had often heard Caruso sing, in Italy; I found it difficult to decide which voice was superior, his or yours.’ He paused. ‘I believe you also have sung in Italy.’
Now there was no doubt whatsoever. This man knew me. And from my earliest beginnings. Suddenly I had an impulse to unburden myself. I was in trouble. Perhaps he might help me. Then came the counter thought: don’t make an ass of yourself with a total stranger. I got to my feet.
‘I’ll walk back now,’ I said.
‘I’ll come with you if I may. I have often wished to speak with you, so often – forgive me – so often have I seen sadness and unhappiness written upon your face.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Of sorts.’
‘You seem to know of me rather intimately.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he answered simply. ‘I am the pastor of St Bede’s Church in Beverly Hills. Your friend, author and doctor, who brought you here, came to see me. He was anxious about you, worried by the complete change in your natural character and disposition. We had a long talk. Now, of course, I could not intervene, our meeting has been purely fortuitous, or should I say providential. I often come here to read my office and get a breath of sea air. Now that we have met, come and sit with me, in my car, or yours, and let us have a little chat.’