Fancies and Goodnights - Collier John - Страница 110
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«There is a very great difference,» said Henry.
«There is a difference,» said Mr. Fishbein, «of two or three million dollars. I am not talking salary to you, Mr. Sanford, though this is a big vehicle we are casting, about the biggest child-opportunity in film history. But do you ever think of royalties, royalties on toys, children's underwear, that sort of thing? However, I don't expect that phase interests a man of your standing. I know you feel all the publicity and ballyhoo might spoil the kiddie. If you saw some of the screen mamas we have to cope with here, you'd know who did the spoiling. With parents of your background, your little girl might go to Bryn Mawr when she was through out here, and, apart from her dress, no one could pick her out from any bunch of sub-debs on the campus. Well, it's been very nice to chat with you, Mr. Sanford. I hope you'll let me drop in at your museum next time I come East — have a look at some of those splendid pictures and busts. By the way, how do you folks in the art world regard the screen drama in its present phase?»
«Well …» said Henry.
He was still saying «well» fifteen minutes later. Mr. Fishbein seemed determined to say a great deal.
«There is a great deal in what you say,» said Henry. «I must admit I hadn't thought of one or two of those points before. I'll call you up tomorrow morning, Mr. Fishbein. I'll let you know definitely.»
Henry hung up. He found himself in a state of peculiar excitement. His breathing was affected. His mind seemed to be working furiously, yet produced no thought. «There is a good deal of difference, to a child,» said he at last, «between having an overworked, undistinguished, hard-up, eternally bothered sort of father, and the sort I might be.»
«Who is that dark, slim, distinguished-looking millionaire archeologist in the yellow waistcoat? He looks a darling.»
«He's my daddy.»
It was on the campus at Bryn Mawr. The girls were a lovely lot that year.
«Oh, hell!» said Henry. «I must keep myself out of this. But that cuts both ways. I must keep my prejudices out also.»
In the end he got up and caught his usual train, being, as not infrequently happened, very nearly run over near the entrance to Grand Central. «If I had been killed by that cab,» thought Henry, «what would my life have been?»
Bates was on the train. Bates was a publisher. With him was another man from the Tarrytown district, a man called Cartwright, a plump and merry man, with shining eyeglasses. A fourth came in shortly after Henry had taken his seat. This was a man whose name none of them knew, because he seldom opened his mouth. He was sallow, lantern-jawed, with a wry smile and an attentive, understanding eye. They seemed to know him very well, God knows how; he always joined them when he travelled on the train, ventured nothing, replied briefly, and nodded cordially when they got off at Tarrytown. He himself went on. When he was not there, they missed him. His nod and his astringent smile were valued.
The train started. Henry waited till they got out into the daylight. Then he launched his news, watching carefully for their reaction. «You'll never guess who rang me up today,» said he. «The great Fishbein. In person, as they love to say. Speaking from Hollywood. He talked for pretty nearly half an hour. It seems this brat of mine, Joyce — well, they want to make a child star of her. 'The child star of the next seven years,' he said.»
The others laughed heartily. «Can you beat that?» said Cartwright. «For sheer unmitigated gall!»
«Probably thought you'd jump at it,» said Bates. «When I think of what they do to books of ours!»
«I can see Sanford as a screen daddy,» said Cartwright. «Especially in the later years. What did you tell him — rather see your daughter dead at your feet, or what?»
«Well,» said Henry, «I said I'd think it over.»
«Oh, but … Well, of course, it's your business, old man,» said Cartwright. «But I shouldn't think it required much thought»
«My reaction was exactly the same as yours — at first,» said Henry. «All the same, he mentioned — and I imagine the man is not a downright liar — he mentioned two or three million dollars. Yon have to think a bit before you turn that sort of thing down. For someone else, mark you, not for yourself.»
«It's a lot of money,» said Cartwright. «They don't want an old male actor, I suppose — butlers and clergymen? I'd go like a shot. But a kid …»
«I was rather impressed by one or two things Fishbein had to say,» said Henry. «The man's no fool, you know. He quite agreed about some of these child stars. He says it's their god-awful parents. Apparently the studios are very careful about the brats. Psychiatrists in attendance …»
«Oh, hell!» said Bates, «listen, I've been out there twice, about books.»
«But it shows the right spirit,» argued Henry. «He told me another thing. It seems the I.Q. of these youngsters is always very notably above the average.»
«So much the worse,» said Bates, «for I.Q.»
«I.Q.'s not everything,» said Cartwright. «What do they grow up like?»
«It's too early to know,» said Henry. «Maybe very well. After all, it's a form of experience. If a child has that sort of talent…»
«Oh, come!» said Bates.
«She has a right to develop in her own way,» said Henry obstinately. «After all, my wife and I would be there.»
«Henry,» said Bates, «you sound like some of our authors when they get offers to go out there. They have it all worked out on paper, poor bastards!»
«I think there's a difference,» said Henry. «Two or three millions is…»
«Quantity makes no difference,» said Bates, «when the quality of the money is lousy. It's not real money, Henry. It's dead leaves; that's what it is.»
«Or sour grapes,» said Henry, glancing at their silent companion for approval. «I feel that Joyce, when she is old enough, might view it differently. I must say I don't care much for your reaction. The same goes for you, Cartwright. If you're sincere, you're about ten years behind the times. There's such a thing as being narrow-minded, stuffy. Film people in these days are very often people of culture. After all, they're artists, in a way.»
«They say money talks,» said Bates. «I think I can hear it. Henry, it has an ugly voice.»
«So has envy,» said Henry. «I must say I …» He broke off. «What do you think?» said he to the silent man.
«I don't know,» said that worthy, rubbing his lantern jaw, and twisting his mourn abominably. «I don't know. For Christ's sake! I earn much about what you fellows do. God damn it! I live in a sort of cottage — four rooms. That's all I could afford. Why? Because I wanted it solid. Try to buy a bit of seasoned wood, that's all. Just try it. You talk about children, wives, God knows what. How the hell do you manage it? Probably eat margarine. Everything's margarine, pretty nearly. An old woman cooks for me — I said, 'Don't give me any of that stuff; I don't like it. I don't like to be insulted. Don't give me food out of cans, don't give me food made with something-eeta, or something-ola.' I want leather on my feet and I want wool on my back. That's all. I'd as soon have them spit in my face as sell me their damned -olas and -eetas. It costs me all I earn to run a four-room shack. Wives! Families! Taps to Hollywood! Smells of margarine to me.»
After this surprising outburst, he relapsed into his habitual silence. Obviously he had not heard, or understood, anything about the stupendous offer. It had been strained out, as by a filter of prejudice. The train began to slow up, approaching Tarrytown. «Well, gentlemen,» said Henry with acridity, as he collected his things. «If I'd been in doubt before, you would have made my mind up for me. Thank you. And goodbye! I shall accept Mr. Fishbein's offer tomorrow.» Compressing his lips, he nodded a bitter farewell.
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