Snow, C.P. - George Passant (aka Strangers and Brothers).txt

by Unknown

  "I hope they get him": a good many men, as kindhearted as any of us can ever be, said at the time that I was reading. We are none of us men of flesh and bone except to ourselves.

  Excusing myself from dinner, I went to George's. He was alone listening to the wireless by the fire. "Hallo," he said. His cheeks were pale, and the day's beard was showing. He seemed tired and lifeless.

  "I didn't know whether anyone would come round," he said.

  Jack and Olive entered as we were sitting in silence. Although there was a strained note in his laugh, Jack came as a relief.

  "We'd better do something," he said. "It isn't every day one's sent for trial----"

  "You fool," cried Olive and put her arm round his waist.

  Soon the room was crowded. Roy came in, Daphne, several of those I had seen at the Farm in September. They had made a point of collecting here tonight. George whispered to Daphne for a while, and then, as the others addressed him with a pretence of casualness, he said: "I didn't expect you all." He was embarrassed, uncontrollably grateful for the show of loyalty.

  Jack laughed at him. "Never mind that. We've got to amuse them now they're here. This has got to be a night."

  A girl replied with a sly, hungry joke. There was a thundery uneasiness. The air was full of the hysteria of respite from strain, friendliness mixed with the fear of persecution and the sting of desire. We left the room, and packed into Olive's car and Roy's and another young man's. In the early days none of us thought of owning a car. We were poorer then; but by now even the younger members of the group were not willing to take their poverty so cheerfully for granted.

  We drove to a public-house outside the town. The streets were still shining with the lights of Christmas week; a bitterly cold wind blew clouds across the sky; the stars were pale. As Olive drove us past the last tram lines, she took a corner very fast, swerved across the road, so that for a second we were blinded in a headlight, and then brought us away by a foot -a flash of light and the road again.

  "Silly," Olive cried.

  In this mood, I thought, she could kill herself without it being an accident. Once or twice in our lives, we all know times when some part of ourselves desires to turn the wheel into a crash; just as we shiver on a height, feel the death-wish, force ourselves from the edge.

  At the public-house they were quickly drunk, helped by their excitement; Olive and Jack danced on the bar floor, a rough whirling apache dance. Everyone was restless. As the night passed, some of them drove to another town, but before midnight almost the entire party had gathered in Rachel's flat.

  "They can't do much harm now," said Rachel. "It's a good job there's somewhere safe for them to come." The flat took up the top storey of an unoccupied house near the station. Rachel had become secretary of her firm, and it was her luxury to entertain George's friends, while she watched them with goodnatured self-indulgence.

  Olive and I stayed in the inner room; through the halfopen sliding doors we saw some of the girls and heard George's voice throwing out drunken and passionate praise. Jack came to Olive.

  "When are we going home?"

  "Not yet," she said. She was smiling at him. Her words were as full of excitement as George's. "You want to stay, don't you?"

  He laughed--but suddenly I felt that he had become dependent on her. He went back, and from our sofa she could see him caressing a girl, and at the same time attracting the attention of the room.

  Olive's eyes followed him.

  "I don't mind that as much as I did once," she said to me. She added: "He isn't as drunk as the rest of us. He never has liked drinking, you know. He's as--temperate as Arthur. It's queer they both should be." She went on talking quickly about Morcom, among the noise of the other room.

  "You know," she went on, "I never felt he was such a strong man as the others did. I liked him, of course." Then she said: "He wasn't my first lover, perhaps you don't know that. You knew me best when I was still frightened of my virginity, didn't you? Strange how strong that was. But it wasn't strong enough----" She looked into the room with a half-smile. "Jack seduced me one night----"

  "When?" I had not known.

  "Before my father died."

  "Were you attached to Jack, then? I didn't think----"

  "I was always fond of him, of course. But not in the way that's got hold of me since," she said. "No, it just happened -we met in London somehow. He never was a man to fail for want of trying. I had one or two week-ends with him, afterwards. At odd times. You know how erratic he used to be. It didn't matter much, just for once he'd think it might be a good idea."

  "And you?"

  "Sometimes I refused. In the end, I was driven back, though. I suppose one's always driven back. Then I didn't see him for a long time."

  "What about Arthur, then?"

  "I'd thought a lot of him. I'd heard from him all the time we were away. Then when I came back, he wanted me more than ever. Just then I didn't see why not."

  She paused. "You've no idea how hard a time it was. He was jealous, madly jealous at times. Of anyone I seemed to like. And I couldn't help it, I kept playing on it. There were times when he was so jealous that he only got any rest when we were sleeping together. I drove him to that. He wanted me not really to make love--just to be sure of me. And I couldn't help the little hints, that would set him off tearing himself with suspicion----"

  "I know," I said.

  She said: "He used to treat me rough now and then. I didn't mind that, sometimes I want it. You've guessed that, haven't you? But even then I couldn't believe the will was there." She went on: "We didn't reach happiness. We both deteriorated, we were both worse people. Counting it all up, I don't know who got hurt more. I can't bear to think of his life just then; jealousy going on and on. It was like that in the old days, of course. Funny that he was always more jealous of Jack than anyone else. Even when there was no reason for it in the world."

  "And so you left him and went to Jack?" I said.

  "It was bound to hurt him--more than if I had gone to anyone else," she said. "But that had nothing to do with it. I tell you, I was really in love for the first time in my life." She added: "You've seen me with Jack. I want you to tell me that I'm not deceiving myself."

  "I know you love him----"

  "But you think it isn't simple--even now?" She broke out. "I'll confess something. When I went to Jack--I was certain that I belonged to him--I still wondered whether it was because of Arthur. That kept coming back. You can imagine, it came back when Jack was after a new girl, when I wanted him and felt ashamed of myself. But I'm certain that I belong to him more than ever. It would have happened, if I'd never let Arthur come near me. I know it isn't simple, it isn't just a love affair. I expect he would prefer to have picked up one of those girls in there. I've had too many nights when I've wanted to break it off--and still been making plans for keeping him. But neither of us had any choice----"

  Olive's nerves were tightened with fatigue, fear, the laughs of hysterical enjoyment from the outer room. But she was exhilarated by putting Jack off, sitting within a few yards of his drunken party, and then confiding how much she needed him. She had thrown off any covering of self-pity, however. She seemed stronger than any of us. She was still cherishing some petty sufferings, as she had always done. Her longing for humility was real, but it sprang from the depth of her intense spiritual pride. No one could have mistaken--under the surface of her restless nervousness, full of the day's degradation--still warmed and roused by Jack's voice, tired as she was--that she was speaking from an inner certainty of herself.

  "If he quits before the trial, mind you, Lewis----" she began.

  I exclaimed.

  "You know that he's thought of that?"

  "Of course I know," said Olive. "I'm not blind when I love.

  He's thought of getting abroad. On the whole, I don't think he'll try."

  "If he did?"

  "I should run after him. As soon as he cricked his finger. Whether he cricked his f
inger or not."

  I thought of George's safety: when she asked, "How easy is it--for us to get abroad?" I kept the details out of my answer.

  Just then I heard George's voice above the rest. The partition had slid further back, and from our room we could see him; he was half-lying on a sofa with Daphne on his knee, one arm round her; in the other hand he held a glass. He had begun to sing at the top of his voice, so violently that his hand shook and the spirit kept spurting out.

  Daphne jumped from his knee, and stood behind the sofa, trying to quieten him. He sang on: the words were so loud that I could not disentangle them, but it sounded like one of his father's hymns.

  "There's George," said Olive.

  She watched him.

  "Some people once thought there might be something between us. They were stupid. We've never had the slightest feeling for each other."

  She went on: "I know what you feared a minute ago. If Jack flew, I should be ready to desert George. That's true. Yet he's been close to me--in a way I've never understood."

  She got up, and walked into the other room. Some of them looked in Jack's direction, expecting her to go there. But she went and stood by George. I had not seen her touch him, not once in those years. Now she dropped on her knees by the sofa, and took his hand in hers.

  THIRTY

  GEORGE'S DIARY

  I left them at three o'clock. Some hours later, when I was still in bed, a telephone message came from the hospital: would I go to the children's clinic at once? Morcom was on duty there, he urgently wanted to see me. The streets were filling up as I went out; out of the shops, women bustled by, their cheeks pink in the frost. The indifference of the scene, the cosiness, like a Breughel picture, only brought out my anxiety. It was an actual relief to see Morcom's face, meeting me with a look of question and acute strain.

  He could ask nothing; a nurse was in the room, and a batch of boys, round the age of twelve or so. As I watched, it was his gentleness which fascinated me. They responded to him immediately, with shrill, high, squealing laughs. With the nurse he was sharply efficient: but, as he talked to the boys, his manner became natural and self-effacing, so that they gathered round him, their nervousness gone, chaffing him. Some of them had noticed his pallor: "Have you got a headache, Mr. Morcom?"

  "Were you out on the spree last night, Mr. Morcom?"

  Then, as he took me into his office, his expression changed. "Were you with them last night?"

  I nodded.

  "What do they think?"

  "They've a good idea what the chances are."

  "Has George?" asked Morcom.

  "Yes."

  "You talked of Jack escaping, the first night this began. Why don't you suggest it to George?"

  I hesitated.

  "It wouldn't be easy," I said.

  "Easy! You of all people talk of it not being easy--when you know what the alternative is."

  "I know--"

  "But you won't go to George."

  "I can't," I said.

  "It's his fault," said Morcom. "It's that madman's fault."

  "It's no use blaming anyone now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's too late to talk about George's fault. Or yours. Or mine for not stopping it," I said.

  "Yes," said Morcom.

  "If you had gone back that night and taken care of them, this might never have happened. That night you warned me, and I begged you to go back. If you had only been able to forget your self-respect," I said.

  My voice had gone harsh like his; he heard me say what he was continually thinking; he was relieved. His face became softened. He said, in a casual, almost light-hearted tone: "That wouldn't have been so easy, either." He paused, then said: "The only thing is, what's to be done? There's still some time."

  "I don't think there's anything you can do," I said. "They will have to wait for the trial."

  "You'll be busy with the case?"

  "Yes."

  "You're lucky." Then he said: "I've not asked you before; but are you as likely to get them off--as anyone we could find?"

  "No," I said. "If we could afford to pay."

  "I ought to have been told that. I'll give the money--"

  "I've thought it out--as dispassionately as I can," I said. "I don't think the difference is worth the money. For one reason. Money may be more important afterwards. If we've spent every penny--"

  "You mean, if they're convicted--"

  "We've got to be ready," I said.

  That afternoon, when I was sitting alone in the drawing. room at Eden's, Daphne visited me. She talked of the previous night.

  "It was rather an orgy, wasn't it?" she said. "Of course, you didn't see it after it really began--" She mentioned a common acquaintance, and said: "Of course, it would have sent her away for good, wouldn't it? But then she's 'upright.' I can't help respecting her, you know, when I'm not relapsing like last night." Then she said: "But I'm being silly, wasting your time. In the middle of this horror. It's as bad as going off last night. But that happened because we were in this mess, didn't it?"

  The shrewdness shot through the prattle of her talk, and her eyes, often flirtatious, were steady and sensible. "That's just why I've come up to see you now, Lewis. I'm getting a bit worked up."

  "Go on."

  "You're easy to talk to, aren't you?" she said (coquettishness returned for a second; her upper lip puckered). "I shan't be terribly helpful, you know. It's just to get it off my chest. But anyway, it's like this; when George first thought of making passes at me he wanted me to know the awful secrets of his life. He was certain that I should be shocked," she went on. "I oughtn't to laugh at him, poor dear. He was serious about it. It must have been a struggle. When he decided it was the right thing to do, he went ahead--though he fancied he was taking a risk. He really believed he might lose me." She smiled.

  "Well, do you know what he did?" she said. "He insisted on giving me his diary. It's a staggering document. I expect I enjoyed the pieces he thought I'd mind. But there are some I can't always laugh away. I've brought it along." (She had placed a small dispatch case on the floor.) "I want you to look at it for me--" She sat on the arm of my chair; the arrangement of the first page, as her finger pointed out an entry, seemed identical with those George himself showed me years ago.

  First she made me read a series of passages about the agency; quite soon after they bought it, it seemed that George was troubled about the circulation of the Arrow--"it cannot conceivably have reached the figure that Martineau gave me in good faith." The set of entries went on for several pages: neither of us spoke as I read it.

  "That's all about that business," said Daphne. "I don't know what it means. But I couldn't rest till you'd seen it. I thought you might need it for the case--" then she broke off. "Will you read some more? While I'm here?"

  There was little else directly bearing on the case in the entries Daphne selected. I only saw a few perfunctory references to his job at Eden's, and little more about the "enterprise" with Jack and Olive. On the whole, I was surprised that they had seemed to matter so little.

  Daphne, in fact, had not brought the diary only to ask about the case. I was not even certain what she inferred from the first entries she had pointed out. Sensibly, she had determined to reveal them to me as his lawyer. Whether she thought George guilty, I did not know. But she was obviously affected by other parts of his confessions.

  She was deeply fond of him, and in a youthful, shrewd and managing way she was trying to plan their future life. She felt lost, as she read some passages which a more completely experienced woman might have found alien. Actually Daphne, though lively and sensual, was also sentimental and full of conventional dreams. In imagination, she was contriving a happy marriage with George.

  I hesitated. Then I thought she had enough natural insight to stand something of the truth. I tried to explain some of the contradications in his life as honestly as I could. I regretted it, for I hurt her; and she said good-bye, still conv
inced that she knew him better than I.

  She left the entire diary with me, from 1922 to the month before the preliminary inquiries. I went on reading it for hours. To any intimate of George's, who accepted by habit the strange appearance of his life, it would have been moving. To me, it carried the irretrievability of the past, along with a life close to one's own in affection and pity--and so far away that it brought a desolation of loneliness.

  I looked back for the first reference to the group, and read again the early "justification" which he had shown me that night at the Farm, in 1925. There was much more about the School and his friends in that tone, for years afterwards: in 1927, soon after his disappointment in the firm, he was writing: The family have at last partially got rid of their conception of me as selfish--and he in particular appreciates my care and devotion, in his eagerness to give the world its due. Olive has gone, Mona has just become engaged, many of them have gone: but there are others, there are some closer to me than there have ever been. I find I have been writing of them all this holiday. If anything can be inferred from these expressions of my feelings, I have been useful to these people at the School. There are signs that freedom is life. And three years ago I was groaning inwardly at my distance from my friends. I was watching them from afar.

  Then, still explaining to himself the divisions of his emotional life, he returned to the town, and for several week-ends in Nottingham and London passed an "equinox" of sensuality.

  This randy fit is going on too long. Last night I could not resist taking the train to London. I was inflamed by the vision of one of our prettiest s--f--s, I found my little girl of 1921, older and more dilapidated, but with the same touching curve of the lips.

  To-night it was still on me. I took the familiar train to Nottingham. I found a pair of old friends in the first pub and spent a half-hour of pleasure looking at Pauline's face; but they were booked, and I was not in a mood to award free sherry for ever, so I moved on. I have hazy recollections of hordes of women that I kissed. I finished up drunk in the train three or four hours ago. And as we came to the scattered lights outside the town, I thought that everything worth while in my life I had invested in this place.