Poor Caroline (19 page)

'You did say that Powell's
Experiments with Light
was a
great book, I believe, sir?' asked this individual.

'Ow, Mr. Johnson!' giggled the assistant librarian appre
ciatively. 'What a start you gave me: I never thought you'd
be coming here to-night!'

'No? And again, Yes! My dear Miss Brackenbury, the spirit like the wind bloweth where it listeth. And I am in
deed most interested to hear Mr. - Mr. -'

'Macafee,' suggested the girl.

'Mr. Macafee called my friend Powell's little treatise a
great book.'

'What the Hell do you know about Powell's Book?'

'Ah, what indeed, my friend? Well, in the first place
Powell and I ran up against each other in Los Angeles way
back in '23; an' in the second place he shot his book across to me when he'd written it; and in the third place, I've read it, and I can tell you, sir, that it's just ten years out of date.
It was outa date, 's' matter a fact, before it was written.
'Smy belief that the Russians an' Germans have been put
ting across that kind o' thing since '25, but poor old Powell
never would look beyond his own nose. Never would have a look-see at what was going on on the other side the duck pond. And what happens? What happens? I tell you, sir,
there's no man on earth so wall-eyed as an expert with a
kink.'

'And may I ask why Powell gave you his book? Have you anything to do with kinematography or theatre engineering?'

The new-comer thrust a dirty hand into his waistcoat,
then into his trouser, then into his coat pockets, and at last
produced a rather soiled and crumpled card, on which Hugh read:

'Clifton Roderick Johnson of Toronto and Hollywood.
Director of the Anglo-American School of Scenario Writing,
18 Essex Street, Strand, London, (Eng.), and 247 East Twelfth Street, New York.'

'Indeed,' said Hugh. 'And what is a school of scenario
writing, if I may ask?'

'My dear sir, my dear sir. You are interested enough in
the cinema to wanna wade through Powell's wretched outa
date punk on lighting. Can't you see the need for a move
ment to raise the standard of the scenario? Why, 'smy belief
that the scenario supplies the fundamental brain work be
hind the cinema. Getta good scenario, and with luck you gotta good film. There's Art in the scenario; there's intel
lect. There's Psychol'gy. My job is to put across Art an'
Psychol'gy to the multitude. Catch 'em young and give 'em
high ideals. That's our motto.'

'Indeed,' said Hugh, frigid with dislike.

'Now, take your own case. You're a young man who
thinks you're int'rested in lighting. You go to a film you think you like an' say, "Jehosaphat, that's great stuff! Yet
sure-ly a fine girl like that would never let a third-rate
crumpet-muncher like that simp get away with her mother's secret like that?"
Don't
you? An'
that's
the beginning of criticism. An' criticism's the first step toward construction.
You go to a film. An' you starta
getta hunch you could go
one better. An' before you know where you are, you
have
gone one better. Every man, woman or child has at least one
first-rate scenario in him. But until you've learned the
technique, your ideas are bottled up inside you - not a word
saleable - not a syllable. Now, I'll put it to you another
way. When you go to a cinema . . .'

'I never go to a cinema,' said Hugh.

'You never go to a cinema? You? I beg your pardon.
You mean that literally? You
never
go?'

'I am an expert chemist and electrical technician. I in
vented the Tona Perfecta film, and the Macafee projector,
and directed the National Cinema Products experimental
department until three months ago. I am interested in
problems of lighting and acoustics. I have no use for the
osculatory performances of half-clothed young females.'

Mr. Johnson was not daunted. He stared at Hugh, his
big head held sideways. 'Now that is verra interesting.
Verra interesting. As a problem in psychol'gy. I call that
verra interesting. You concentrate on the means. You
spend long days an' spend laborious nights - at least so I
imagine - on constructing the means. Science at the service
of Democracy. The technician
in excelsis.
An'
yet
you despise
the ends. You despise the ends. You don't care what comes
of your work. 'Svery interesting.'

'I'm glad I interest you. But I'm a busy man. Good
evening.'

'Oh, not so fast! Not so fast!' shouted Johnson. 'D'you
still
persist in wanting to read Powell's book?'

'I am not in the habit of changing my mind at the dis
couragement of a casual stranger.'

'Then better come round to my HP place an
borrow it.
You'll see for yourself then it's old stuff. 'Smy belief
Powell's goin' gaga, poor chap. But if you won't believe
me, see for yourself. The only true means of education is
independent investigation.'

'Where is your place?' Hugh was prepared to calculate
possible wear and tear of shoe leather, his distaste for the-
personality of Mr. Johnson adding quite four miles to any
distance from his home. He wanted to read that book.

'Battersea. Facing the Park. Not as artistic as Chelsea,
but quite as pleasant. And I've got the automobile here,
and I've got the books I wanted and if you're through, we
can get off right away.'

'Very well,' said Hugh ungraciously, and followed John
son out of the Public Library.

It was a mild October evening. The brown and sherry-
gold of the London afternoon had faded into clear violets
and blues lit by the primrose lamps, that made a spring
fantasy of the autumn night.

'Glorious evening. Marvellous colouring. Colour. My
God, Colour. I could eat it.
Eat
it,' cried Johnson, folding his vast bulk into the driver's seat of his small car. 'Why
don't you chemists getta work on a really good colour
medium? T
hese so-called colour films are crude stuff -
crude. 'Smy belief that what this age is suffering from is a
lack of colour. Black an' white. Straight lines. Halftones.
Damn this bus! She's always a bad starter. I'll have ta
crank her. Hell!' Hugh saw no reason for putting his
mechanical skill at Johnson's service. He sat in his seat while
Johnson lumbered in and out of the car. The engine snorted
and trembled. 'This mechanical age robs us of warmth an'
beauty. We gotta get back to Nature. Passion.' The car
leapt forward, almost bouncing Hugh from his seat. 'Steady,
girl, steady! 'S I was saying,' shouted Johnson, gripping the
wheel as though it were the rein of a refractory bronco.
'Hell, these cars are! When I was out West I could ride
anything with four legs an' a spine. But these
Machines.' . . .
He threw into the word 'Machine' the concentrated hatred
of a lifetime. The car narrowly avoided a bus, mounted
with one wheel the left-hand pavement, then bounded for
ward on its erratic way. "S I was saying, look at all these
straight lines. Houses. Sky-scrapers. Machines. So on.
Watch 'em. Look at their design. Straight lines. Stripes.
Carrying the eye forward to a logical conclusion. Rational.
Logic. No compromise. Where's it leading to?
Must
lead
somewhere. Revolution. Revolt of men against machines,
perhaps. Or of machines against men. What happened
during the French Revolution? Stripes fashionable again.
Straight lines. Logic. No compromise. Revolution. Mobs.
Terror. Guillotine. Then look at our Victorian era. Sprigs.
Sprays, patterns. Break up the lines. Break up thought. Albert. Tennyson. The Great Exhibition. The great mid
dle-classes. The great humbug. Who wants to think thought on to the end when its design is smothered in wax flowers?'

'Really?' gasped Hugh, whose whole attention was fixed
upon the progress of the car. He felt as though he were
being winnowed, flesh from bone, but he clung nimbly to
the bouncing vehicle.

'Psychol'gy. That's what we gotta study. 'Smy belief
the cinema's the greatest force in breaking up revolution in the world. Cuts across the straight line. Gives 'em beauty,
passion, Art. Why — Beauty — Hell, you son of a bitch!
Where the devil d'you think you're going to?' By a miracle
he avoided the slaughter of an errand boy, and returned to
his flowing monologue. 'We've gotta democritize colour. Give Art an' music to the Masses. Counteract the Machine
by
the machine. Satan to cast out Satan. Yes - sir!'

Frail as a cockleshell among great whales, the little car
burrowed its way between buses, dived under drays, and
span around huge lorries. Hugh's heart had turned into a
heavy lump lying below his waistcoat, but he scorned to
show fear to the man beside him.

'Ah, you scientists,'chanted Johnson above the tumult of
the traffic. 'Ah, you scientists who pursue the means
an'
despise the ends, take care. Take care. The day will come when you may be thankful to go to school with babes and
sucklings to learn the elements of psychol'gy.
Here
we are.
Nip out, an' I'll just park her round at the back.'

Hugh climbed out with surprised relief, finding real pleasure in release from fear. Five minutes later he was seated in a warm and unusually comfortable room, half
buried in the brown plush cushions of a large leather chair,
his feet turned to the blaze of a bright fire. Johnson at a
small table was mixing whiskys and sodas.

'Great little place. Rented it furnished for three months.
I'm a rolling stone. Mayfair one minute, Alberta back
woods the next. Gotta have action. Well, here's how!'

Hugh bowed stiffly over his whisky.

He had not altered his opinion of his host, but he told
himself that with scoundrels, at least, you knew where you
were. Johnson was obviously an adventurer. Dirty, garru
lous, probably dishonest, sensual and
ignorant. But his fire was warm, and his whisky was like soft flame, and it was
clear that the man knew something, however inaccurately,
about the cinema. He had Powell's book and he might
possibly understand the marketing of patents. It was the
kind of commercial, second-rate knowledge which one might
expect such a man to have. Hugh determined to keep to the
forefront of his mind his two immediate necessities. He
wanted to read Fowell on Lighting, and he wanted to sell
his Tona Perfecta Film. If Johnson could help him to do
either, he would endure the peculiarities of villains.