Corridors of Power

by C. P. Snow

  ‘You’re no good,’ she said, practical and open. ‘You’ve got a wife.’

  In the great drawing-room, most of the faces looked happy. Happier than in most gatherings, I thought. Then I saw Caro walking out on Roger’s arm, an impressive smiling couple, unselfconscious, used to catching the public eye. Were there others there with this kind of secret? There were bound to be some: if one knew these lives, there would be some surprises. But not, perhaps, so many as one might think. In this drawing-room the men and women were vigorous and hearty. ‘Peach-fed’ I had heard them called, though not by themselves. There were some love-affairs floating around. But most of them didn’t chafe against the limits of the sexual existence. Often they got more out of it than those who did. But they didn’t live, or talk, or excite themselves, as though there were, there must be, a sexual heaven round the corner. Perhaps, I sometimes thought, that was a pre-condition for the active life.

  Anyway, most of them were happy. That night, they seemed to be getting a special happiness out of one another’s reflected glory: even the Prime Minister, though the glory reflected was his own. It was one of their rewards. What others were there?

  In the hall, after Margaret and I had made our goodbyes, we waited while car after car, government car, firm’s car, were shouted for by name. Lord Bridgewater: Mr Leverett-Smith: the Belgian Ambassador: Sir Hector Rose. Margaret asked me why I was smiling. I had just remembered that I had once asked Lord Lufkin what rewards he thought he got, for a life which many people would have judged arduous beyond compare. Power, of course, I said. We took that for granted. The only other thing, I had suggested, was transport. He had not used a public vehicle in London for a generation: transport was always laid on. In the midst of his dog’s life, he travelled as though on a magic carpet. Lord Lufkin had not been amused.

  When I saw the other men, brought together for dinner in Lord North Street the following night, I thought Roger had made a tactical mistake. Monty Cave was there, Leverett-Smith, Tom Wyndham: both Rose and Osbaldiston, and also Francis Getliffe. It was easy to see the rationale. Cave was Roger’s closest political ally, Leverett-Smith and Wyndham had had to know what was going on. The rest of us had all through been close to Roger’s policy. But everyone there, except Francis, had attended the reception the night before. If I had been Roger, I should have waited for the afterglow from the charmed circle to fade; then they might not mind so much the risk of being out of it.

  As I sat at the dinner-table, Islamic except for Caro at the far end, I began to wonder what Roger’s intentions were. He wasn’t likely to speak openly, in front of Hector Rose or Douglas, or several of the others. He and Caro, who was working like an ally who has been rehearsed, seemed to be casting round for opinions: just how were the reactions coming in? They weren’t asking specific questions. They were sitting back, waiting for any information that was collecting in the air.

  Just as when Roger talked to me about religion, I could not rely on my judgement of him, or even be sure, because it was flickering, what my judgement was. Was this the way he would start, if he were looking for an opportunity to withdraw? Perhaps he was not making a tactical mistake after all.

  Certainly – and this was clear and explicit – he was giving everyone present the chance to come out with his doubts. He was not only giving them the chance, he was pressing them to do so.

  After dinner, Caro did not leave. She was one of the junta, she sat over the port like the rest of us. Before the port was put on the table, something happened that I did not remember having seen in that house or anywhere else. The maids took off the tablecloth, then laid the wine-glasses on the bare and polished rosewood. It was, so she said, an old nineteenth-century custom which had been kept up in her father’s house. The glasses, the silver, the decanters, the rounded pinkness from a bowl of roses, were reflected in the table-top: perhaps that was what her ancestors had enjoyed, perhaps that was how she imagined them sitting, forming Victoria’s governments, handing out the jobs.

  Sliding a decanter to Getliffe on his left, Roger said casually that everyone there knew pretty well who was for them and who against. For any sort of decision, one had to know that. Then he added, in the most detached of tones, rather like a research student at the Harvard School of Government: ‘I sometimes wonder how much freedom any of us have to make decisions? Politicians I mean. I wonder if the area of freedom isn’t smaller than one’s inclined to think.’

  Hector Rose must have been sure of what he had expected all along, that Roger was preparing a loophole of escape. But Rose took up the argument, as though he were being either judicious or perverse.

  ‘With respect, Minister, I think it’s even smaller than that. The older I grow the more public decisions I have assisted at – in the French sense, I need hardly say – the more I believe that old Count Tolstoy was in the right of it.’

  Tom Wyndham looked stupefied but obstinate, as though Hector’s opinions – obviously Russian-influenced – might well be subversive.

  ‘It’s slightly instructive to ask oneself’ – It was rare for Rose to go out to dinner, but he seemed, as he aged, suddenly to be enjoying company – ‘exactly what would be the effect on the public decisions, if the whole of your delightful party, Lady Caroline, were eliminated at one fell swoop? Or in fact, which I don’t think is really very likely, if we extended the operation and eliminated the whole of Her Majesty’s Government and the higher Civil Service? With great respect, I strongly suspect that the effect would be precisely nil. Exactly the same decisions would be taken within negligible limits, and they would be taken at almost exactly the same time.’

  Douglas joined in. He was not averse to disagreeing with Rose, and yet they shared their service solidarity. They did not want the talk to become too concrete: so Douglas took his cue from Rose. He didn’t believe in predestination quite so much, he said. Perhaps other men could do the same jobs, make the same choices: but one had to act and feel as though that wasn’t so. When one was at the centre of things, said Douglas, one did make the choices. No one believed in predestination when he was making a choice.

  He looked round the table. For an instant, his dégagé air had quite gone. ‘And that’s why we wanted to be at the centre of things.’

  ‘We, my dear Douglas?’ asked Rose.

  ‘I wasn’t speaking only for myself,’ said Douglas.

  Monty Cave, sitting opposite to me half-way down the table, had been watching Roger with quick eyes. His dinner-jacket rumpled, so that his body looked stubbier than it was, Monty caught everyone’s attention. Turning away from Douglas and Rose, he asked Roger, in a quiet and confidential tone: ‘Weren’t you saying – something else?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ said Monty, and suddenly he could not resist the malicious fat grin, ‘weren’t you saying something a little nearer home?’

  ‘What do you think, Monty?’

  ‘I thought you were telling us that in politics, what’s going to be dead right ten years hence may be dead wrong now. That is unfortunately true. We all know that.’

  ‘Well?’ Roger had no expression.

  ‘I may have misunderstood you, but I thought you were asking us whether there was the faintest chance that mightn’t be the present situation.’

  ‘Was that the impression I gave you?’

  ‘In which case,’ said Monty, ‘wouldn’t you be in favour of going into reverse? Wouldn’t you tend to be just a little cautious?’

  ‘Do you really think he’s been so cautious?’ Caro interrupted, from the end of the table. Her eyes were gleaming, her colour was high. She looked angry and splendid.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting it was easy,’ said Monty.

  ‘But you were suggesting that he was getting cold feet. Doesn’t anyone realize that for months he’s been playing his hand to the limit? It’s possible that he may have been overplaying his hand. The only question is, where does he go from here?’

  ‘Where does he?’ said M
onty.

  There was a flash of hostility between them. He was attracted to her, afraid of her. On her part, he was too subtle, not virile enough. Her anger was genuine. She was fighting for Roger, she was ready to let fly; but she knew – as though by instinct – how to let fly in the way that did most good. She was leaving nothing to chance. She had seen plenty of disloyalties round dinner-tables such as this. She wanted to make sure of Leverett-Smith and Tom Wyndham: she was trying to prove to them that Roger was being pushed on by wilder men.

  She was high-hearted, and her anger was genuine. How much so was this attack of Cave’s? I didn’t know whether he and Roger had an understanding. It had been convenient for Roger, it had suited his tactics, for the attack to be made.

  ‘In my judgement–’ Leverett-Smith began, with extreme pomposity.

  ‘Yes, Horace?’ Caro leaned towards him with two kinds of charm, the aristocratic embrace, the embrace of a pretty woman.

  ‘In my judgement, we ought to remember that sometimes the more haste, the less speed.’ He produced this thought as though it contained the wisdom of the ages. Caro continued to smile admiringly.

  ‘Have we been forgetting that?’ she said.

  ‘Do enlighten us,’ said Monty.

  ‘I’m inclined to think that we’ve been moving perceptibly faster than opinion round us. It’s right that we should move faster, otherwise we shouldn’t be giving proper leadership. The problem as I see it,’ Leverett-Smith went on, ‘is to judge how much faster it is safe to go.’

  ‘Quite,’ Monty commented.

  His contempt was palpable. I thought he was wrong to dismiss Leverett-Smith as a negligible man. He was as sententious as a man could reasonably be: but he wasn’t budgeable. Thinking of the future, I wished he were more negligible, more budgeable. It might be a misfortune for Roger not to have someone malleable in that job.

  Caro went on devoting herself to him and Tom Wyndham. She was good with them. She could sympathize with their doubts, the hesitations deep in their conservative flesh – partly because, though she would not have admitted it to anyone but Roger, and not to him, once he had committed himself, those hesitations were her own.

  Tom Wyndham was still wistfully wishing that the battleship were the decisive weapon.

  ‘I know it isn’t, of course,’ he said.

  ‘I’m so glad of that,’ said Monty Cave.

  Tom persisted, red-faced and puzzled. Since the last war, everyone had gone on changing their minds on what you could fight with. He expected it was all right. But still, he said, ‘It takes the chaps’ (he meant the serving officers, and also his friends in the House) ‘time to get used to things changing like this.’

  Francis Getliffe broke in, apologizing to Wyndham and to Leverett-Smith with the aloof formality that was growing on him. But, just as he had become more formal, he had also become more impatient.

  ‘There isn’t much time,’ he said. ‘The time-scale of politics you know about, it’s your business to. But the time-scale of applied science is something like ten times faster. If you’re going to wait too long before everyone agrees, then the overwhelming probability is that there won’t be anything left to wait for.’

  Roger stared at him. Hector Rose gave a grim smile. Then I put in my piece. If we got really stuck (I was deliberately identifying myself with Roger’s policy) we still had one recourse. We had been trying to struggle through by the channels of ‘closed’ politics – the corridors, the committees. If they got blocked, we could take it into the open. The only even quarter-way open statement had been the speech in Fishmongers’ Hall. We all knew why this was so: the problems were, or at least we made them, technical: most of the facts were fogged by security: these were the decisions which in our country, in all countries, we had got used to settling by a handful of men, in secret. For many reasons, this was forced on us. But there might come a time when someone would have to break it. This mightn’t be the time. But even the threat that it was, I said without emphasis, might have an interesting effect.

  I didn’t expect these remarks to be popular. They weren’t. To Douglas, who loved me, they were shocking and best forgotten. To Rose, who didn’t, they were the token of why I had never quite fitted in. Even Francis didn’t like them much. As for the politicians, Cave was reflecting: he was the only man there who might have considered whether in fact there did exist – in a rich and comfortable country – the social forces to call upon.

  Leverett-Smith said, ‘I can’t associate myself with that suggestion.’

  Caro was frowning. There was no debate. Someone changed the subject, and it was a few minutes later that Roger said: ‘None of this is easy, you know.’

  Since his exchange with Cave he had not spoken. He had sat at the end of the table, sipping his port, pre-potent, brooding. Now he took charge. He showed his worry, he did not pretend. He knew, and he knew that we knew, that he had to carry everyone round that table with him. Listening, I thought I had never heard him put on a better performance. Performance? That was true and not true. This might not be all he intended, but it was a good deal. There were ambiguities which might be deliberate: there were also some that he didn’t know himself.

  As we said goodnight, his influence was still pervasive. He seemed to have gained all he wanted.

  On the way home, and in cooler blood next morning, I wondered what each man thought Roger had actually said. What you wanted to hear, you heard, even with people as experienced as these. Ask them to write down their accounts and the answers would have a certain ironic interest. And yet, Roger had said nothing untruthful or even disingenuous.

  As for myself, I was further from predicting his actions than I had been since Rose gave his first warning. Of course, Roger was leaving a channel of retreat: he would be crazy not to do so. Of course, he must have faced the thought – and Caro must have brought it into the open – that there was still time to back down, throw the stress of his policy just where solid men would be comfortable, then take another Ministry, and gain considerable credit into the bargain. So much was clear. I was sure of nothing else.

  28: A Name without much Meaning

  One morning in December, I received a report. It was brought by one of my acquaintances in Security. I was not allowed to see it, but I was used to their abracadabra. He gave me the name I wanted, and took the report away with him.

  The name I wanted was that of Ellen’s persecutor. When I heard it, I said: ‘Oh, yes?’ It sounded matter-of-fact, like the name of a new housekeeper. It sounded – as facts tend to sound, whenever you are mixed up in a secret investigation – as probable or improbable as anything else. Yet, when I was left alone, it seemed very odd. Nothing like what I should have expected. Odd, but not melodramatically odd. I hadn’t been told, as in an old-fashioned thriller, the name of Hector Rose or the Prime Minister, or Roger himself. Dully odd. Within five minutes, I rang up Ellen telling her I wanted to see her before one o’clock.

  ‘What about?’ But she did not need to ask.

  Over the telephone, I made her give me a promise. I couldn’t say anything, I told her, unless she did. When she had this information, she must do nothing with it, nothing of any kind, until we had agreed.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, in a strong reluctant voice.

  We had to find somewhere where we could safely meet. It was the Christmas holidays, and at my flat the children would be home. Hers? No, she said: for once, I thought, not practical.

  Briskly, she fixed a rendezvous, in an art gallery off Burlington Gardens. There I found her, alone, in the middle of the inner room, on the single chair. Round the walls were slabs and flashes of colour on canvases of enormous size. It occurred to me, walking to her in the deserted gallery, that we might have been two solitary devotees of Action painting: or a middle-aged official, a smartly-dressed, youngish woman, at a first assignation. As she saw me, her eyes were open, dark, apprehensive, waiting.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  I wasted no time.r />
  ‘Apparently,’ I replied, ‘it’s Hood.’

  For an instant, she couldn’t believe that she had heard right, or that the Hood of whom I spoke was the man we both knew slightly, the little, pleasant-faced dispenser of drinks, cherry-cheeked, Pickwickian, who had a job, not one of the top jobs, but two or three down on the commercial side, with one of Lufkin’s rivals. I told her I had met him last at Lufkin’s birthday party, when he had been exhaling with admiration at each utterance that Lufkin made, and raising his hands high as if to applaud a diva.

  ‘I’ve seen him in the library,’ she repeated several times. She went on: ‘But he can’t have anything against me! I’ve hardly talked to him alone.’

  She was searching for something personal, a snub, a pass she hadn’t noticed or had not responded to, but she couldn’t flatter herself; she couldn’t even gain that tiny bit of consolation.

  ‘Perhaps seeing me there somehow put him on to us. How did he get on to us? Does anyone know?’

  I said it didn’t matter. To her, in that moment, it mattered so much that she could think of nothing else. Then she cried: ‘I’ve got to have it out with him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got to.’

  ‘That’s why I made you promise,’ I said, ‘an hour ago.’

  She looked at me with violence, with something like hate. She was craving for action as though it were a drug. To be kept from it was intolerable. It was like a denial of the whole self, body and soul, body as well as soul.

  Passionately she argued. It could do no harm, she said. It could do no good, I replied: it might be dangerous. Now that we had identified him, some of the menace was gone. If it was simply a personal grudge, which I said again that I didn’t believe, he didn’t count, except for nuisance value. She could live with that.