smiling too. I was relieved when I saw it was safely in the great American
tradition and I tried to take hold of the conversation but Stahr seemed
suddenly all right.
"Here's my typical experience," he said very succinctly and clearly to
Brimmer. "The best director in Hollywood-a man I never interfere with-has
some streak in him that wants to slip a pansy into every picture or
something on that order. Something offensive. He stamps it in deep like a
watermark so I can't get it out. Every time he does it the Legion of Decency
moves a step forward and something has to be sacrificed out of some honest
film."
"Typical organization trouble," agreed Brimmer.
"Typical," said Stahr. "It's an endless battle. So now this director
tells me it's all right because he's got a Directors Guild and I can't
oppress the poor. That's how you add to my troubles."
"It's a little remote from us," said Brimmer smiling. "I don't think
we'd make much headway with the directors."
"The directors used to be my pals," said Stahr proudly.
It was like Edward the VII's boast that he had moved in the best
society in Europe.
"But some of them have never forgiven me," he continued, "-for bringing
out stage directors when sound came in. It put them on their toes and made
them learn their jobs all over but they never did really forgive me. That
time we imported a whole new hogshead full of writers and I thought they
were great fellows till they all went Red."
Gary Cooper came in and sat down in a corner with a bunch of men who
breathed whenever he did and looked as if they lived off him and weren't
budging an inch. A woman across the room looked around and turned out to be
Carole Lombard-I was glad that Brimmer was at least getting an eyeful.
Stahr ordered a whiskey and soda and, almost immediately, another. He
ate nothing but a few spoonfuls of soup and he said all the awful things
about everybody being lazy so-and-so's and none of it mattered to him
because he had lots of money-it was the kind of talk you heard whenever
Father and his friends were together. I think Stahr realized that it sounded
pretty ugly outside of the proper company-maybe he had never heard how it
sounded before. Anyhow he shut up and drank off a cup of black coffee. I
loved him and what he said didn't change that but I hated Brimmer to carry
off this impression. I wanted him to see Stahr as a sort of technological
virtuoso and here Stahr had been playing the wicked overseer to a point he
would have called trash if he had watched it on the screen.
"I'm a production man," he said as if to modify his previous attitude.
"I like writers-I think I understand them. I don't want to kick anybody out
if they do their work."
"We don't want you to," said Brimmer pleasantly. "We'd like to take you
over as a going concern."
Stahr nodded grimly.
"I'd like to put you in a roomful of my partners. They've all got a
dozen reasons for having Fitts run you fellows out of town."
"We appreciate your protection," said Brimmer with a certain irony.
"Frankly we do find you difficult, Mr. Stahr-precisely because you are a
paternalistic employer and your influence is very great."
Stahr was only half listening.
"I never thought," he said, "-that I had more brains than a writer has.
But I always thought that his brains belonged to me- because I knew how to
use them. Like the Romans-I've heard that they never invented things but
they knew what to do with them. Do you see? I don't say it's right. But it's
the way I've always felt-since I was a boy."
This interested Brimmer-the first thing that had interested him for an
hour.
"You know yourself very well, Mr. Stahr," he said.
I think he wanted to get away. He had been curious to see what kind of
man Stahr was and now he thought he knew. Still hoping things would be
different I rashly urged him to ride home with us but when Stahr stopped by
the bar for another drink I knew I'd made a mistake.
It was a gentle, harmless, motionless evening with a lot of Saturday
cars. Stahr's hand lay along the back of the seat touching my hair. Suddenly
I wished it had been about ten years ago. I would have been nine. Brimmer
about eighteen and working his way through some mid-western college and
Stahr twenty-five just having inherited the world and full of confidence and
joy. We would both have looked up to Stahr so, without question. And here we
were in an adult conflict to which there was no peaceable solution,
complicated now with exhaustion and drink.
We turned in at our drive and I drove around to the garden again.
"I must go along now," said Brimmer. "I've got to meet some people."
"No, stay," said Stahr. "I never have said what I wanted. We'll play
ping-pong and have another drink and then we'll tear into each other."
Brimmer hesitated. Stahr turned on the floodlight and picked up his
ping-pong bat and I went into the house for some whiskey-I wouldn't have
dared disobey him.
When I came back they were not playing but Stahr was batting a whole
box of new balls across to Brimmer who turned them aside. When I arrived he
quit and took the bottle and retired to a chair just out of the floodlight,
watching in dark dangerous majesty. He was paie-he was so transparent that
you could almost watch the alcohol mingle with the poison of his exhaustion.
"Time to relax on Saturday night," he said.
"You're not relaxing," I said.
He was carrying on a losing battle with his instinct toward
schizophrenia.
"I'm going to beat up Brimmer," he announced after a moment. "I'm going
to handle this thing personally."
"Can't you pay somebody to do it?" asked Brimmer.
I signalled him to keep quiet.
"I do my own dirty work," said Stahr. "I'm going to beat hell out of
you and put you on a train."
He got up and came forward and I put my arms around him, gripping him.
"Please stop this!" I said. "Oh, you're being so bad."
"This fellow has an influence over you," he said darkly. "Over all you
young people. You don't know what you're doing."
"Please go home," I said to Brimmer.
Stahr's suit was made of slippery cloth and suddenly he slipped away
from me and went for Brimmer. Brimmer retreated backward around the table.
There was an odd expression in his face and afterwards I thought it looked
as if he were saying, "Is this all? This frail half sick person holding up
the whole thing."
Then Stahr came close, his hands going up. It seemed to me that Brimmer
held him off with his left arm a minute and then I looked away-I couldn't
bear to watch.
When I looked back Stahr was out of sight below the level of the table
and Brimmer was looking down at him.
"Please go home," I said to Brimmer.
"All right." He stood looking down at Stahr as I came around the table.
"I always wanted to hit ten million dollars but I didn't know it would be
like this."
Stahr lay motionless.
"Please go," I said.
"I'm sorry. Can I help-"
"No. Please go. I understand."
He looked again, a little awed at the depths of Stahr's repose which he
had created in a split second. Then he went quickly away over the grass and
I knelt down and shook Stahr. In a moment he came awake with a terrific
convulsion and bounced up on his feet.
"Where is he?" he shouted.
"Who?" I asked innocently.
"That American. Why in hell did you have to marry him, you damn fool."
"Monroe-he's gone. I didn't marry anybody."
I pushed him down in a chair.
"He's been gone half an hour," I lied.
The ping-pong balls lay around in the grass like a constellation of
stars. I turned on a sprinkler and came back with a wet handkerchief but
there was no mark on Stahr-he must have been hit in the side of the head. He
went off behind some trees and was sick and I heard him kicking up some
earth over it. After that he seemed all right but he wouldn't go into the
house till I got him some mouthwash so I took back the whiskey bottle and
got a mouthwash bottle. His wretched essay at getting drunk was over. I've
been out with college freshmen but for sheer ineptitude and absence of the
Bacchic spirit it unquestionably took the cake. Every bad thing happened to
him but that was all.
We went in the house; the cook said Father and Mr. Marcus and
Flieshacker were on the verandah so we stayed in the "processed leather
room." We both sat down in a couple of places and seemed to slide off and
finally I sat on a fur rug and Stahr on a footstool beside me.
"Did I hit him?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Quite badly."
"I don't believe it." After a minute he added, "I didn't want to hurt
him. I just wanted to chase him out. I guess he got scared and hit me."
If this was his interpretation of what had happened it was all right
with me.
"Do you hold it against him?"
"Oh no," he said. "I was drunk." He looked around. "I've never been in
here before-who did this room-somebody from the studio?"
"Somebody from New York."
"Well, I'll have to get you out of here," he said in his old pleasant
way. "How would you like to go out to Doug Fairbanks' ranch and spend the
night? He asked me-I know he'd love to have you."
That's how the two weeks started that he and I went around together. It
only took one of them for Louella to have us married.
tradition and I tried to take hold of the conversation but Stahr seemed
suddenly all right.
"Here's my typical experience," he said very succinctly and clearly to
Brimmer. "The best director in Hollywood-a man I never interfere with-has
some streak in him that wants to slip a pansy into every picture or
something on that order. Something offensive. He stamps it in deep like a
watermark so I can't get it out. Every time he does it the Legion of Decency
moves a step forward and something has to be sacrificed out of some honest
film."
"Typical organization trouble," agreed Brimmer.
"Typical," said Stahr. "It's an endless battle. So now this director
tells me it's all right because he's got a Directors Guild and I can't
oppress the poor. That's how you add to my troubles."
"It's a little remote from us," said Brimmer smiling. "I don't think
we'd make much headway with the directors."
"The directors used to be my pals," said Stahr proudly.
It was like Edward the VII's boast that he had moved in the best
society in Europe.
"But some of them have never forgiven me," he continued, "-for bringing
out stage directors when sound came in. It put them on their toes and made
them learn their jobs all over but they never did really forgive me. That
time we imported a whole new hogshead full of writers and I thought they
were great fellows till they all went Red."
Gary Cooper came in and sat down in a corner with a bunch of men who
breathed whenever he did and looked as if they lived off him and weren't
budging an inch. A woman across the room looked around and turned out to be
Carole Lombard-I was glad that Brimmer was at least getting an eyeful.
Stahr ordered a whiskey and soda and, almost immediately, another. He
ate nothing but a few spoonfuls of soup and he said all the awful things
about everybody being lazy so-and-so's and none of it mattered to him
because he had lots of money-it was the kind of talk you heard whenever
Father and his friends were together. I think Stahr realized that it sounded
pretty ugly outside of the proper company-maybe he had never heard how it
sounded before. Anyhow he shut up and drank off a cup of black coffee. I
loved him and what he said didn't change that but I hated Brimmer to carry
off this impression. I wanted him to see Stahr as a sort of technological
virtuoso and here Stahr had been playing the wicked overseer to a point he
would have called trash if he had watched it on the screen.
"I'm a production man," he said as if to modify his previous attitude.
"I like writers-I think I understand them. I don't want to kick anybody out
if they do their work."
"We don't want you to," said Brimmer pleasantly. "We'd like to take you
over as a going concern."
Stahr nodded grimly.
"I'd like to put you in a roomful of my partners. They've all got a
dozen reasons for having Fitts run you fellows out of town."
"We appreciate your protection," said Brimmer with a certain irony.
"Frankly we do find you difficult, Mr. Stahr-precisely because you are a
paternalistic employer and your influence is very great."
Stahr was only half listening.
"I never thought," he said, "-that I had more brains than a writer has.
But I always thought that his brains belonged to me- because I knew how to
use them. Like the Romans-I've heard that they never invented things but
they knew what to do with them. Do you see? I don't say it's right. But it's
the way I've always felt-since I was a boy."
This interested Brimmer-the first thing that had interested him for an
hour.
"You know yourself very well, Mr. Stahr," he said.
I think he wanted to get away. He had been curious to see what kind of
man Stahr was and now he thought he knew. Still hoping things would be
different I rashly urged him to ride home with us but when Stahr stopped by
the bar for another drink I knew I'd made a mistake.
It was a gentle, harmless, motionless evening with a lot of Saturday
cars. Stahr's hand lay along the back of the seat touching my hair. Suddenly
I wished it had been about ten years ago. I would have been nine. Brimmer
about eighteen and working his way through some mid-western college and
Stahr twenty-five just having inherited the world and full of confidence and
joy. We would both have looked up to Stahr so, without question. And here we
were in an adult conflict to which there was no peaceable solution,
complicated now with exhaustion and drink.
We turned in at our drive and I drove around to the garden again.
"I must go along now," said Brimmer. "I've got to meet some people."
"No, stay," said Stahr. "I never have said what I wanted. We'll play
ping-pong and have another drink and then we'll tear into each other."
Brimmer hesitated. Stahr turned on the floodlight and picked up his
ping-pong bat and I went into the house for some whiskey-I wouldn't have
dared disobey him.
When I came back they were not playing but Stahr was batting a whole
box of new balls across to Brimmer who turned them aside. When I arrived he
quit and took the bottle and retired to a chair just out of the floodlight,
watching in dark dangerous majesty. He was paie-he was so transparent that
you could almost watch the alcohol mingle with the poison of his exhaustion.
"Time to relax on Saturday night," he said.
"You're not relaxing," I said.
He was carrying on a losing battle with his instinct toward
schizophrenia.
"I'm going to beat up Brimmer," he announced after a moment. "I'm going
to handle this thing personally."
"Can't you pay somebody to do it?" asked Brimmer.
I signalled him to keep quiet.
"I do my own dirty work," said Stahr. "I'm going to beat hell out of
you and put you on a train."
He got up and came forward and I put my arms around him, gripping him.
"Please stop this!" I said. "Oh, you're being so bad."
"This fellow has an influence over you," he said darkly. "Over all you
young people. You don't know what you're doing."
"Please go home," I said to Brimmer.
Stahr's suit was made of slippery cloth and suddenly he slipped away
from me and went for Brimmer. Brimmer retreated backward around the table.
There was an odd expression in his face and afterwards I thought it looked
as if he were saying, "Is this all? This frail half sick person holding up
the whole thing."
Then Stahr came close, his hands going up. It seemed to me that Brimmer
held him off with his left arm a minute and then I looked away-I couldn't
bear to watch.
When I looked back Stahr was out of sight below the level of the table
and Brimmer was looking down at him.
"Please go home," I said to Brimmer.
"All right." He stood looking down at Stahr as I came around the table.
"I always wanted to hit ten million dollars but I didn't know it would be
like this."
Stahr lay motionless.
"Please go," I said.
"I'm sorry. Can I help-"
"No. Please go. I understand."
He looked again, a little awed at the depths of Stahr's repose which he
had created in a split second. Then he went quickly away over the grass and
I knelt down and shook Stahr. In a moment he came awake with a terrific
convulsion and bounced up on his feet.
"Where is he?" he shouted.
"Who?" I asked innocently.
"That American. Why in hell did you have to marry him, you damn fool."
"Monroe-he's gone. I didn't marry anybody."
I pushed him down in a chair.
"He's been gone half an hour," I lied.
The ping-pong balls lay around in the grass like a constellation of
stars. I turned on a sprinkler and came back with a wet handkerchief but
there was no mark on Stahr-he must have been hit in the side of the head. He
went off behind some trees and was sick and I heard him kicking up some
earth over it. After that he seemed all right but he wouldn't go into the
house till I got him some mouthwash so I took back the whiskey bottle and
got a mouthwash bottle. His wretched essay at getting drunk was over. I've
been out with college freshmen but for sheer ineptitude and absence of the
Bacchic spirit it unquestionably took the cake. Every bad thing happened to
him but that was all.
We went in the house; the cook said Father and Mr. Marcus and
Flieshacker were on the verandah so we stayed in the "processed leather
room." We both sat down in a couple of places and seemed to slide off and
finally I sat on a fur rug and Stahr on a footstool beside me.
"Did I hit him?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Quite badly."
"I don't believe it." After a minute he added, "I didn't want to hurt
him. I just wanted to chase him out. I guess he got scared and hit me."
If this was his interpretation of what had happened it was all right
with me.
"Do you hold it against him?"
"Oh no," he said. "I was drunk." He looked around. "I've never been in
here before-who did this room-somebody from the studio?"
"Somebody from New York."
"Well, I'll have to get you out of here," he said in his old pleasant
way. "How would you like to go out to Doug Fairbanks' ranch and spend the
night? He asked me-I know he'd love to have you."
That's how the two weeks started that he and I went around together. It
only took one of them for Louella to have us married.