by C. P. Snow
‘That’s why,’ he said, ‘you’re lucky to have no ties.’
He could not break, he was telling me, from his: for a night or two he had escaped, behaved completely out of character, shown no consideration or feeling or even manners: but he was drawn back to the conflict of his home. For a night or two he had escaped from the attempts to confine him, not only his father’s but also Ann’s. He was drawn back. But, sitting in the alcove of the smoky café, his face pale against the tarnished purple plush, his eyes brilliant with lack of sleep, Charles talked little of his father or Ann. He was unassuageably angry with himself. Why had he behaved in this fashion? – without dignity, without courage, without warmth. He could not explain it. He felt, not only self-despising, but mystified.
He talked of himself, but he said nothing I had not heard before. He went over the arguments for the way he had chosen. He was exhausted, unhappy, nothing he said could satisfy him. We walked the streets in the cold rain, it was late before we went to bed, but he had not reached any kind of release.
In the morning, grey and dark, we sat over our breakfast. He had been dreaming, he said, and he looked absent, as though still preoccupied and weighed down by his dream. Suddenly he rose, went to my desk and took hold of the brief on which we had worked the night before. He turned to me, his lips pulled sideways in a smile, and said: ‘I was unpleasant about this yesterday.’ It was not an apology. ‘You know what it is not to be able to stop being cruel. One hates it but goes on.’
At that moment we both knew, without another word, why he had escaped. He had not really escaped from the conflict: he had escaped from what he might do within it.
He knew – it was a link between us, for I also knew – what it was like to be cruel. To be impelled to be cruel, and to enjoy it. Other young men could let it ride, could take themselves for granted, but not he. He could not accept it as part of himself. It had to be watched and guarded against. With the force, freshness, and hope of which he was capable, he longed to put it aside, to be kind and selfless as he believed he could be kind and selfless. When he spoke of wanting to lead a ‘useful’ life, he really meant something stronger; but he was still young enough, and so were the rest of us, to be inhibited and prudish about the words we used. He said ‘useful’; but what he really meant was ‘good’. When Ann fought shy of my questions about what he hoped for, we both had an idea: he wanted to lead a good life, that was all.
I sometimes thought it was those who were tempted to be cruel who most wanted to be good.
Charles wanted to dull his sadic edge. He knew the glitter which radiated from him in a fit of malice. He was willing to become dull, humdrum, pedestrian, in order not to feel that special exhilaration of the nerves. For long periods he succeeded. By the time of that quarrel, he was gentler than when I first knew him. But he could not trust himself. To others the edge, the cruel glitter, might seem dead, but he had to live with his own nature.
So he was frightened of his conflict with his father. He must be free, he must find his own way, he must fulfil his love for Ann; but he needed desperately that he should prevail without trouble, without the harsh excitement that he could feel latent in his own heart. Neither Ann nor his father must suffer through him.
In the grey bleak light of that winter morning, he stood, still heavy from his dream, and knew why he had run away. Yet he believed that he could keep them safe. Those fits of temptation seemed like a visitor to his true self. They faded before the steady warmth and strength which ran more richly in him than in most men. With all the reassurance of that warmth and strength, he believed that he could keep them safe.
‘I shall go to stay with Francis for a few days,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll come back to Mr L’s. I’ll let them know today, of course. It’s monstrous to have given them this absurd piece of worry.’
18: Mr March Asks a Question
As soon as Mr March heard from his son, he insisted once more that Katherine should invite Ann to the house. Again Ann refused. Katherine was frightened to bring the reply to Mr March, but he received it without expression.
Hearing what had happened, I met Ann and told her it was a mistake to have declined the invitation. We were sitting in a Soho pub. Her eyes were sparkling, as though she were laughing it off.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
She spoke so lightly that I went on without concealing anything: I said that Mr March suspected her influence, and that for all their sakes she ought to calm him down.
Then I realized that I had completely misread her. It was anger that made her eyes bright; she was not only indignant, but outraged.
‘I’m very glad that I didn’t go,’ she said.
‘It will make things worse.’
‘No,’ she said with fierceness. ‘He’s got to see that Charles has decided for himself.’
‘He’ll never believe it,’ I told her.
‘I can’t help that.’
‘Can’t you try?’
‘No.’ Her tone was dismissive and hard. ‘I should have thought you knew that Charles had made his choice. I should have thought you knew that it was right for him.’
‘I’m not asking you to make me realize it–’ I began.
‘Any sane father would realize it too. If Mr March insists on making a nuisance of himself, I can’t help it.’
She added that she had rung up Charles to ask whether she might refuse the invitation – and he had said yes. The pleasure, the submissive pleasure, with which she spoke of asking Charles’ permission glowed against the hardness she had just shown about Mr March.
She had been angry with me also, for telling her what she already knew. But she was tired by the conflict over Charles; she found it a relief to make it up with me and talk about him. She told me something, more than either of them had done before, about their plans for marriage. It was still not settled. Recently, there had been a reason for delay, with Charles deciding on his career; but Ann told me that, months before, he had been pressing her to marry him. I did not doubt her for a second, but it puzzled me. The delay had been on her side. Yet she returned his passion. That night, in the middle of trouble, she spoke like an adoring woman who might be abandoned by her lover.
‘I wish it were all over,’ she said to me. ‘I wish he and I were together by ourselves.’
Her face was strained. It occurred to me that hers was the kind of strength which would snap rather than give way. To divert her, I arranged to take her to a concert the following night.
When I spoke to Katherine, in order to find out whether Mr March had taken any more steps, I mentioned that Ann was only putting a face on things by act of will.
Katherine said impatiently: ‘I often wish Charles had found someone a bit more ordinary.’
As Ann and I walked to our seats at the Queen’s Hall next evening, I noticed how many men’s eyes were drawn to her. When the first piece had started and I was composing myself, because the music meant nothing to me, for two hours of day-dreaming, I looked at her: she was wearing a new red evening frock, the skin of her throat was white, she had closed her eyes as she had done in the sun at Haslingfield.
In the interval, we moved down the aisle on our way out. Suddenly, with a start of astonishment and alarm, I saw Mr March coming towards us. Ann saw him at the same instant. Neither of us had any doubt that he had followed her there to force this meeting. All we could do was walk on. As I waited for the moment of meeting, I was thinking ‘how did he learn we were here?’ The question nagged at me, meaninglessly important, fretting with anxiety, ‘how did he learn we were here?’
Mr March stood in our way. He looked at Ann, and said good evening to us both. Then, addressing himself entirely to Ann, he said without any explanation: ‘I’m glad to see you here tonight. I haven’t had the pleasure of your company since you graced my establishment in the country. My children, for some reason best known to themselves, have deprived me of the opportunity of renewing our acquaintance.’
‘I’m sorry th
at I couldn’t come this week, Mr March. Katherine asked me,’ said Ann.
‘It was at my special request that my daughter asked you. I see no reason why my house should not claim an occasional evening of your time,’ said Mr March. From the first word his manner reminded me of his reception of her at Haslingfield: except that now he made more demands on her. ‘I recall that shortly after our first acquaintance we had an unfortunate difference of opinion upon the future of the world. I should consider the views you expressed even more pernicious if they prevented you from coming to my house again.’
Ann made a polite mutter.
‘I am expecting you to come tonight,’ said Mr March. ‘I expect you both to give me the pleasure of your company when these performers have finished. I don’t think you can refuse to call in at my house for an hour or so.’
Ann’s expression stayed open and steady: but her eyes looked childishly young, just as I had seen others’ at a sudden shock.
‘I shall have the pleasure of escorting you,’ said Mr March. For the first time, he turned to me: ‘Lewis, I rely on you to see that when the performers have exhausted themselves you both find your way towards my car.’
Ann sat by my side through the rest of the concert without any restless tic at all, as though keeping herself deliberately still.
The drive to Bryanston Square was quiet. I sat in front and only once or twice heard any words pass between the two behind. Even when he did speak, Mr March’s voice was unusually low. It was still not his full voice that he used in giving orders to the butler, as soon as we entered the house.
‘Tell my daughter to join us in my study. See that something to eat and drink is provided for my guests. Tell Taylor he is to wait with the car to take Miss Simon home.’ He took Ann’s arm, eagerly, perhaps roughly, and led her across the hall.
His study was the darkest room in the house, the wallpaper a deep brown, the bookshelves full of leather-bound collections that came down from his ancestors, together with the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Jewish Encyclopaedia, and rows of works of reference. A bright fire was blazing, though the room still seemed cavernous. A tray of sandwiches and glasses was brought in after us, and Katherine followed. At the sight of her face, I knew the answer to the nagging question ‘how did he know where to find us?’ She must have let fall, after my conversation with her, that I was taking Ann to the concert. I felt an instant of irrelevant satisfaction, as one does when a name one has forgotten suddenly clicks back to mind.
‘I am not aware what refreshment you consider appropriate for this time of night,’ said Mr March to Ann, as he sat down in his armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘I hope you will ask for anything that may not be provided.’
Ann absently let him give her a brandy-and-soda, and sipped at it.
‘I want to ask you,’ said Mr March, ‘why my son is contemplating a completely unsuitable career.’
19: Father and Son
‘I want to ask you,’ said Mr March, ‘why my son is contemplating a completely unsuitable career.’
The firelight glowed on Ann’s face. She did not show any change of expression. Politely she answered:
‘I really don’t know why you’re asking me that.’
‘I’m asking you,’ said Mr March, ‘because there is no one else qualified to give an opinion.’
‘There is only one person who can give an opinion, you know,’ said Ann.
‘Who may that be?’
‘Why, Charles himself.’ She answered once more in a deferential tone, but Mr March’s voice was growing harsh as he said:
‘I do not consider that my son is responsible for his actions in this respect.’
‘I wish you’d believe that he’s entirely responsible.’
‘I acknowledge your remark,’ Mr March shot out furiously. ‘I repeat that he is not responsible for this preposterous nonsense. You regard me as being considerably blinder than I am. From the moment I heard of it, I knew that he was committing it at your instigation. You have forced him into it for reasons of your own.’
‘I assure you that isn’t true,’ said Ann. Mr March burst out again, but she went on, her manner still respectful, but with firmness and anger underneath: ‘Charles has discussed his future with me, I won’t pretend he hasn’t. I won’t pretend that I haven’t told him what I think. As a matter of fact I do believe that becoming a doctor is absolutely right for him. But the idea was entirely his own. Neither I nor anyone else has any influence over him when it comes to deciding his actions. As far as I’m concerned, I shouldn’t choose to have it otherwise.’
She was sitting back in her chair, and the flickering of the bright fire threw shadows on her checks and heightened the moulding of the bones. As she replied, Mr March’s frown had darkened. He was maddened at not being able to upset her. Then he said: ‘You are much too modest. You are aware that you are an exceedingly attractive woman. I have no doubt that you have tested your power of twisting men round your little finger. I have no doubt that you are testing it on my son now. I can imagine that he is enough in your power to be willing to throw away all I had hoped for him.’
‘I can’t think you know him,’ said Ann.
‘I know,’ said Mr March, looking at her with an intense and bitter stare, ‘that many men would do the same. They would do any nonsense you might want them to.’
‘I shouldn’t have any use for a man who did what I told him,’ she said.
‘Then you have no use for my son?’ shouted Mr March, in a tone that was suddenly triumphant and full of hope.
‘He would never do what I told him.’
‘What is your attitude towards him?’
‘I love him,’ she said.
Mr March groaned.
Ann had spoken straight out, almost roughly, as though it was something that had to be settled once for all. Perhaps she was provoked, because she could feel him torn by a double jealousy.
She was taking away his son, destroying all his hopes: this was the loss which kept biting into his thoughts. But there was another. He was jealous of his son for winning Ann. He too had been attracted by her. That had been evident under the gallantry he showed her at Haslingfield. There was nothing strange about it. Mr March was still a vigorous man. He could imagine by instinct exactly what his son felt for her, down to the deep level where passion and emotion are one. He could imagine it because, with the slightest turn of opportunity, he could have felt it so himself.
So Mr March groaned, as though it were a physical shock.
‘If that is true,’ he said, bringing himself back to the other loss, ‘I find it even more astonishing that you express approval of his absurd intention. Even though you refuse to accept responsibility for it, from what you have just said, I am more certain than ever that the responsibility is yours, and yours alone.’
‘I was glad when he decided to become a doctor, of course I was. He knew I should be glad. That is all,’ she said.
‘Glad? Glad? What justification have you for feeling glad except that you are responsible for it yourself? Are you incapable of realizing that he is ruining any reasonable prospects he might have had? Even if he goes through with this absurd intention–’
‘He will go through with it.’ For the first time she interrupted him.
‘What then? You think my son ought to be satisfied to be a mediocre practitioner?’
‘He’ll be happier about himself,’ said Ann.
There was a silence. A lull came over them. Katherine and I said a few words: Ann even talked of the music she had heard. Then Mr March began to start on his accusations again. A few minutes later, we heard a noise in the hall. As we listened, the clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight. The door opened, and Charles came into the room.
‘I was given no warning to expect you back,’ said Mr March.
‘I only decided to come a couple of hours ago,’ said Charles.
He looked at Katherine, and I guessed that she had let him know, as soon as
she realized what her gaffe had meant.
Charles drew up a chair by the side of Ann’s.
Mr March’s expression was harsh, sombre, and guilty. He said: ‘I met your friend Ann Simon being escorted by Lewis Eliot to the Queen’s Hall. A remarkably undistinguished evening the performers entertained us with, by the way. So I invited them here for refreshments, before they went to their respective homes.’
‘I see,’ said Charles.
Mr March paused, then said: ‘I have taken the opportunity to give Ann Simon my views on your present intentions. I have also asked her for an explanation as to why you have conceived such a ridiculous project.’
‘I should have preferred you to do that in front of me,’ said Charles.
‘I refuse to listen to criticisms from my son upon my behaviour in my own house,’ said Mr March.
‘I shall make them,’ said Charles, ‘if you insist on intruding on my privacy. Don’t you see that this is an intolerable intrusion, don’t you see that?’
‘Your privacy? Do you expect me to accept that your ruining your life is simply a private concern of your own?’
‘Yes,’ said Charles.
‘I refuse to tolerate it in any circumstances,’ Mr March said. ‘Particularly when you’re not acting as a free agent, and are simply letting this young woman gratify some of her misguided tastes.’
‘You must leave her out of it.’
‘I’ve told Mr March,’ said Ann, ‘that I’m very glad about your decision. But I’ve told him that I had nothing to do with your making it, and couldn’t have had.’
‘I shall leave her out of this matter when I have any reason to believe that she’s not the source and origin of it all. If she enjoys wearing the trousers, she’s got to be prepared to answer for the results.’
Up to that instant, Charles’ manner had been stern without relief, and his voice hard and constrained. Suddenly he broke for a second into a singular smile. It was a smile partly sarcastic, partly amused: it was edged by the nearness of Ann, by his sense of the absurd, as though, after Mr March’s last remark, nothing could be so absurd again. Then the argument went on.