The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘Not bad, not bad, Red. You got the doings. This will set you back plenty?’

  ‘My wife and I had it last year.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know you was in town? Ah, well, this will suit nicely for you, Des. Just do nothing, rest up over the week-end. The big day is still uncertain but may come soon.’

  When she had gone, we unpacked and stretched out on long chairs in the sun. At that period before the increase in population, automobiles, and industries had darkened the light coastal mist into smog, Beverly Hills was one of the most enchanting resorts in Southern California, and the hotel at which we were staying one of the best.

  We simply lay about that day, but after dinner in the hotel restaurant I rang my agent, Frank Hulton, at his home.

  ‘How do you like your new job, Alec?’

  ‘It’s a lot easier than writing best-sellers.’

  ‘Well, if you can stop pressing pants tomorrow morning, will you come out here for breakfast?’

  ‘I’d love to, Frank. I’ll get all the shoes brushed tonight. Listen, I’d like to bring a new customer along with me. At present he’s only a prospect, but I think he might be big stuff.’

  ‘Bring him along, Alec. I gather he’s got Bedelia B behind him. Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

  We both slept well that night. However one may laud the Super Chief, there is no escape from the symphony of the rails.

  Next morning at nine o’clock we were in Frank Hulton’s down-town apartment, I at least conscious of the esteem manifest in the invitation to his home, rather than to his busy office. Frank, a clean-living man of the highest principles who never had a contract with his clients beyond his given word, was devoted to his health, an idiosyncrasy typically exemplified in his choice of breakfast. When he had asked us what we wanted he rang down to the kitchen, gave the order and added: ‘The usual for me, please.’

  The ‘usual’, which came up with our coffee and rolls, was an inviting assortment of prepared raw vegetables: cut radishes, spring onions, dainty little carrots, hearts of lettuce, choice pieces of cauliflower, and fragrant strips of celery, all fresh that morning from the Farmers’ Market. We agreed afterwards that we could well have forgone our excellent rolls and butter for such a mouth-watering spread.

  Meanwhile, we talked, first of the chances of my book, then of Desmonde, whose dossier I reeled off while Frank listened intently.

  ‘It’s very apparent,’ he smiled at Desmonde, ‘that Bedelia B. is absolutely sold on you. And that, incidentally, is a rare bit of luck, for when Bedelia B. backs anyone or anything she usually sees it through. Mind you, she’s not the Queen. That title belongs to Louella Parsons, a very different type and a great lady. But Bedelia is on the up and up, a sticker, who never lets a thing go, once she has her teeth in it. For days past she’s been dropping hints, thick as a paperchase, mostly directed towards the young Caruso group. So the next move is up to her.’

  ‘What do you think this will be?’ asked Desmonde.

  ‘It’s an easy guess. Bedelia has a terrific in with the really big movie people: Selznick, Sam Goldwyn, Meyer, particularly Sam. The next time one of them throws a big party, she’ll have you there, Desmonde. My guess again is that she’ll fix a real slam-bang opening for you. Take it, my boy, and you’re in. And if you’re in, don’t sign any quick contracts or you’ll bitterly regret it. I’ll be here, waiting to help you make that first million.’

  When we left Frank some twenty minutes later, I felt that Desmonde had been impressed.

  ‘You like him?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ He smiled drily. ‘And I rather fancied his breakfast.’

  ‘Frank has done me an awful lot of good. I don’t mind what he eats.’

  Now there was nothing we could do but wait. And how pleasant, in that golden era, to idle in the garden of the Beverly Hills Hotel. The big blue pool was there for the early morning plunge, then the quick walk to the nearby resort of the faithful. How often, and always m vain, did I ask Desmonde to accompany me rather than watch me gloomily as I set off. He awaited me in the sun, studying me morosely when I returned.

  ‘Got your sins forgiven?’ he asked me sarcastically, one morning, when I was later than usual.

  ‘No, Desmonde! But I had a good, and I hope useful, talk with Father Devis.’

  Fortunately, at that moment breakfast rolled in, crisp bread wrapped in a napkin, honey, coffee in the silver thermos and, best of all, the big pink grapefruits, halved and ready to be eaten.

  On the fifth day of our stay, when I had begun to worry about the bill, we received a short yet momentous visit from Bedelia, who suddenly appeared as from thin air, pounced like an eagle upon Desmonde and, hooking him by the arm, walked him up and down, articulating rapidly into his ear. Intermittently Desmonde would nod in acquiescence. Finally, Bedelia returned him to the cottage where, with empressement, she produced a large and magnificently ornate card.

  ‘Take care of this, Des, for although you’ll wind up the star of the party, without it you’ll never get in.’

  ‘What about my ticket, Delia B.?’

  ‘Ah, Red,’ she said kindly, ‘you don’t want no ticket. Sam’s parties are big stuff. Authors definitely included out.’

  ‘Come on, D.B. Give. I’m entitled to see the fun. I’ll sit like a mouse in one corner’

  ‘Mice are out too, Red.’ Suddenly she laughed, banding over another ticket. ‘I guess you’re due to be in on it. But see you clean yourself up nice, and don’t even mention the word books, or you’ll be chucked out on the spot.’

  On Delia B.’s departure, we examined the beautiful tickets: formal gold-edged, gold-inlaid invitations to a party to be given by Sam Goldwyn at his home in Beverly Hills, on the evening of June 12th. I looked at Desmonde. ‘Only four more days to wait I’ After our big trip out, it seemed a very short time.

  ‘Have you decided what to sing?’ I asked. ‘The set piece, I suppose – the Prize Song?’

  ‘Good God! Am I a school kid who has just learned up one bloody song? I’ll sing whatever comes up my bloody back.’ After a pause he added: ‘I’m tire of that damn aria and I’m sure you are too. Let’s not talk about it, Alec. We’ll just go and see what happens.’

  The rule of silence was strictly observed, although the imminence of that fateful night weighed upon us. When, finally, it was upon us, we got ourselves, in the words of Delia B., cleaned up nice. I would never, on any occasion, look soigné, but Desmonde, bathed, shaved, in his dark suit and other new accoutrements, really looked smashing, a starlet’s dream of delight. He was at his best a sensationally handsome man, and rest, sunshine, and the Beverly Hills good living had put a bloom on him.

  When we were both ready we sat looking at each other in silence, since Delia B. had strictly enjoined Desmonde to arrive late, extremely late. Desmonde was calm, with that expression of complete indifference, now almost habitual. Had he, I wondered, taken a pill? If so I did not blame him. This was his moment of truth, the crux of a chequered career that might bring dazzling success or abysmal failure. Even for me, who mattered not at all, this waiting was hell.

  At half-past ten, after several earlier false starts, sternly repressed, we passed through the hotel to a waiting taxi. The drive was short, too short, before we drew up at the large, brightly illuminated house. Our humble taxi was clearly suspect by the posse of police on duty at the entrance, but our tickets were eventually validated and we passed into the house where our hats were accepted by another detective, disguised as a butler, who showed us to the great drawing room of the house. On the threshold we looked at each other, took a deep breath, and went in.

  The enormous room, brilliantly lit by two huge Venetian chandeliers, furnished and decorated, carpeted and draped with the taste and luxury that extreme wealth can command, and sporting two Steinway grand pianos, one at; either end, was populated by perhaps forty, human beings, the sexes separated, according, to American custom, so that the elegantly gown
ed women chattered in a gay group on one side, while the men, many immediately recognisable as international stars, were scattered around self-consciously playing the role of he-men on the other.

  Between the two groups, on somewhat elevated little atrium, sat the inimitable Sara, master of all he surged, surrounded by intimates amongst whom, beside a couple of hard-faced men, and in full battle array, with a scarlet ostrich feather in her hair, was Delia B. At one of the grand pianos sat Richard Tauber, at the other, much to my relief, John McCormack, and behind John, on a little settee, John’s wife. Both of these splendid people were my friends, so I immediately made tracks across the room and sat down beside Lily, who welcomed me with a smile. No finer or sweeter woman ever set foot in Hollywood. Now she whispered:

  ‘John tells me there’s something cooking.’

  Desmonde alone, in the doorway, was naturally a conspicuous figure but, after surveying the room with complete composure, he walked quietly to a deserted area of that magnificent chamber, sat down in a Louis XVII gilt armchair, crossed his legs, and with an air of remote interest, let his eyes rest on a stupendous Andreo del Sarto on the opposite wall, depicting in some detail The Rape of the Sabine Women. Indeed, as Desmonde viewed it, a slight critical lift of his left eyebrow seemed to indicate that in his considered opinion it was not by the hand of the master, but rather by one of his pupils, possibly Jacopo Fellini.

  Was it my imagination, or was there a lull in the feline chatter, almost a silence, as eyes were compelled towards this elegant, imperturbable, solitary figure? Nothing attracts women more in Hollywood than the attractive, when it is unknown, and a man. Naturally, all the lovelies had their beauteous optics trained on Desmonde. These were stars of the silver screen, world famous, some without talent, but drilled by clever directors into some semblance of the histrionic art, performers who could be taught to mime the requisite emotions upon request – I shall leave them nameless. But others there were, with magnificent talent. I could see Grace Moore, Carole Lombard, Jane Novak, Lila Lee and, sitting a little apart from the others, Ethel Barrymore and Norma Shearer.

  There was, in fact, little else to attract. Tauber and John were playing little operatic snippets and tossing them across to one another, in a competitive kind of game. But the party had, in fact, dwindled to that mid-point in Hollywood parties when everyone is talked out, and waiting for something to happen before supper.

  It was then that a woman detached herself from the group on the settee and, as every eye was turned upon her, slowly approached Desmonde. She was Grace Moore, young, slim, attractive, and already well-known as a singer. She paused and held out her hand as she reached Desmonde, who immediately stood up. At that moment Puccini took over, skilfully led in by John at the piano, and Grace, drawing near to Desmonde, began to sing that incomparable bridal aria from Butterfly.

  ‘Quest’ obi pomposa

  di scioglier mi tarda

  si vesta la sposa.’

  Very beautifully she sang the first part of the love duet, then Desmonde broke in.

  ‘Con moti di scoiattolo

  i nodi allenta e sdoglie!

  Pensar che quel giocattolo

  è mia moglie…’

  Let it be said, without further transcription, this beautiful and touching love duet was continued with appropriate amatory gestures. So unexpected, so gracefully accomplished, and with such restrained perfection of the male voice, there was immediate applause.

  ‘Desmonde,’ said Grace, ‘ that was delightful, I did enjoy it, so kind of you to keep yourself in check, and not drown me out. Now! You must sing for your supper, alone.’

  With a smile Grace disengaged herself and sat down.

  Desmonde smiled too, but with assumed modesty. He was off to a good start and was taking no risks: I knew it would be the set piece. He said:

  ‘If it would not bore all the famous and distinguished people here I would like to offer a great aria, which as a boy I once heard sung by a voice infinitely greater than mine: the voice of Enrico Caruso.’

  It was a brilliant move. At the outset he had set himself up against the ultimate in perfection. A few suppressed female titters, followed by dead silence. Then with complete composure – that mood of uncaring unconcern that had lately possessed him – Desmonde began to sing. I had hoped he would play it safe and sing the Prize Song but he did not.

  It was that last wild, heart-breaking aria of Cavaradossi in Tosca, as he is led to his execution.

  ‘Amaro sol per te m’era il morire

  Da te prende la vita ogni splendore…’

  I had heard that aria several times before, but never, never as Desmonde sang it now, with all the feeling, the bitterness that was in his heart.

  There were no titters now, no whispers, scarcely a movement. Desmonde was really giving them the works. And when that final cry, ‘Avrà sol da te voce e colore’, hit the ceiling, the applause, for a party of this nature, was astounding. Everyone was standing, John stood up at the piano roaring: ‘ Bravo! Bravissimo!’ Tauber joined the tumult on the bass keys of the piano. Delia B. with cupped hands was trying to make herself heard. I was doing my bit with the full force of my lungs, but at the same time stealing towards the door. Desmonde had done it! Now I was no longer needed, a mere accessory to the fact. As I stood for a moment in the doorway I heard Delia B.’s voice come through:

  ‘Now sing the Prize Song, Des.’

  ‘Yes, do, Desmonde,’ cried John. ‘But first, now that Cavaradossi is gone, let’s have something simple and tender for the ladies. Sing “Passing By”.’

  A silence fell while Desmonde seemed to reflect, then he smiled to John. I hoped it would be the Edward Purcell, the sweetest and most tender of them all. And so it was. Half turning to the ladies he raised his voice:

  ‘There is a lady sweet and kind,

  Was never face so pleas’d my mind;

  I did but see her passing by,

  And yet I love her till I die!’

  Nothing could have been more captivating, more intimate. And

  so different from the Tosca. One glance at those rapt listening faces

  assured me that it was a perfect choice.

  Then, quietly, I took off.

  Chapter Seven

  I came away from that great beautiful, brilliant room, my ears still resounding with the swelling acclamation of all within, and set out at a hard pace for the Beverly Hills. I knew I ran the risk of being picked up – night walkers are criminally suspect in that choice district – yet it was only a short way to the hotel and I felt I must violently exorcise my inner turmoil.

  Desmonde had done it, he had more than done it, he had justified himself at last, and how rosy would be his future from now on. And now, even as I exulted, I wanted only one thing: to get home, as urgently, as speedily as train and ship could take me. I had done what I set out to do, I had helped my friend, at some inconvenience to myself, nothing more was demanded of me. And oh, how overpowering was the vision of my little country house and garden and of all the dear people within. The raspberries and currants would be in full swing, the Victoria plums and greengages coming along, the roses in all splendour, at their, best.

  I reached the hotel in record time, and at the desk made inquiry as to the means of sudden departure. I was not lucky enough to catch a returning Super Chief, but the ordinary Chicago train, non-sleeper, was due to leave at 6 a. m. this very morning – it was now past 4 a. m. I immediately paid the bill for the cottage to the end of the week, thus securing a fuller cooperation from the night clerk, who rang Los Angeles Station and booked me a first class reservation on the Chicago train. We then studied the trans-Atlantic sailings from New York. With luck I might be aboard the Queen Mary, leaving on the following Saturday. I then tipped the clerk, explaining that my friend would probably return later that day, and went through the hotel and garden to the cottage.

  Here, I packed my belongings, sat down and wrote a note to Desmonde which I left on the desk. I then ra
ng Frank and, surprisingly, his voice came over the wire at once.

  ‘Frank,’ I said, ‘I know you hate being wakened, but this is Alec, and I absolutely had to call you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Alec. I’ve already been called four times in the last hour.’

  ‘Then you know he’s made it. In a big way.’

  ‘I know, Alec. I’m just waiting on the early editions.’

  ‘Frank, I rang you to let you know I’m bowing out by the 6 a.m. train. I’ve done my little bit and now I’m relying on you to take care of the new star.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Say, Alec, now you’ve done everything, double plus, for the guy, don’t you want to stay and cash in on it?’

  ‘I guess not, Frank. I’ve had an awful lot of Desmonde lately, I need a little rest, back home.’

  ‘I get you, Alec. Say, your book hits the bookstalls and libraries today. Rely on me to cash in on that.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Frank. Good luck and good-bye.’

  ‘Same to you, Alec.’

  How easily one falls into the idiom of Hollywood. I hung up, with a warm feeling round the pericardium and, as I was too bung full of impetus to rest, I went back to the desk and asked the clerk to call a texi. This he did, the night porter brought my suitcase from the cottage, and I was off.

  At the station I picked up and paid for my ticket at the booking office. My train was at Track 2, the engine, no Super Chief but a solid cross-country plodder, already with steam up, but I hung around waiting for the morning papers to come in. Just before we pulled out I managed to grab a copy of the Hollywood Star, and there it was, splashed across the front page:

  ‘NEW STAR BLAZES INTO HOLLYWOOD SKY

  ‘Last night at a splendid reception given by the King of Hollywood, our own beloved Sam Goldwyn, in the presence of all the top stars of his Kingdom, Desmonde Fitzgerald, a young man, admittedly of great personal attraction, one might even say beauty, but completely unknown, rescued from menial toil in Dublin, held his audience of stars, all experienced, worldly-wise, and talented in their own right, utterly spellbound for more than an hour by the magic of his voice, while he sang his way into their hearts with selections from Grand Opera, and in their own languages, arias of Italy and Germany, and above all, through repeated encores, the touching songs of his native Ireland.