The Conscience of the Rich

by C. P. Snow

  ‘I refuse to disclose my contribution,’ he said, after Philip had been chaffing him about the absence of any present of his own. Everyone knew that Mr March had given them a house, but he had decided not to admit it. Philip was taking advantage of the old family legend that Leonard was particularly close with money.

  ‘You might have produced half a dozen fish forks,’ said Philip.

  ‘I refuse to accept responsibility for their diet,’ said Mr March. ‘I gave Hetty some decanters for her wedding and she always blamed me for the regrettable events afterwards.’

  ‘You could have bought them something for their house,’ said Herbert.

  ‘You could have passed on a piece of your surplus furniture,’ said Philip. ‘So long as Katherine’s forgotten that you ever owned it.’

  ‘There must have been something you could have bought for the house,’ said Herbert’s wife.

  Mr March chuckled, and went off at a tangent. ‘They insist on living in some residence in the provinces, owing to the nature of my son-in-law’s occupation–’

  Katherine interrupted ‘I wish you wouldn’t make it sound like coal-mining, Mr L.’ But he was sailing on:

  ‘A month ago I went to inspect some of their possible places of abode. My son Charles told me the eleven-fifty went from King’s Cross, and it goes from Liverpool Street, of course. However, I never had the slightest faith in his competence; naturally I had consulted the time-table before I asked him, and so arrived at the station in comfortable time. Incidentally, in twenty-five minutes my daughter and son-in-law will be compelled to leave to catch the boat train. On my honeymoon I had already left for the train at the corresponding time, allowing for the additional slowness of the cab as a means of conveyance. People always say Mentone is a particularly quiet resort, but I’ve never found it so. The first time I visited it was on my honeymoon with its general air of unrest. The second time my wife had some jewellery stolen and I was compelled to undergo some interviews with a detective. I never had any confidence in him, but the jewellery was returned several months later. The third time passed without incident. Having arrived despite Charles’ attempt to make my journey impossible–’

  ‘Where? When?’ shouted several of his audience.

  ‘At my daughter’s future domicile in the provinces. On the occasion under discussion,’ replied Mr March without losing way, ‘I proceeded to inspect the three residences which were considered possibilities by the couple principally concerned–’ Philip and the others threw in remarks, they gave Mr March the centre of the stage, and he was letting himself go.

  Then, just after he had triumphantly ended that story and begun another, he looked across the room. Outside the large noisy crowd over which his own voice was prevailing, there were two or three knots of people, not so full of gusto – and Ann by the window, talking to Margaret March.

  Mr March broke off his story, hesitated, and watched them. As Mr March stared at Ann, the room happened to become quiet. Mr March said loudly: ‘I’ve scarcely spoken to my future daughter-in-law. I must go and have a word with her.’

  Slightly flushed, he crossed the room, swinging his arms in his quick, awkward gait.

  ‘Why haven’t you talked to me, young woman? Why am I being deserted on this public occasion?’

  He took her to the centre of the carpet, and there they stood.

  Mr March showed no sign at all of the gallant, elaborately courteous manner which he had first used to her in company. He was speaking to her, here in public view, intimately, simply, brusquely.

  ‘I shall have to see about your own wedding before long,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ann.

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Mr March. ‘Since we are to be related in this manner.’

  Ann looked at him. His expression had become sad and resigned. His head was bent down in a posture unlike his normal one, a posture dejected, subdued.

  ‘Now, whatever happens,’ he said, ‘we must bear with each other.’

  Ann was still looking at him, and he took her hand. They went on talking, and some of us moved towards them. Katherine began teasing him about arranging another wedding in the middle of this. For a second he was silent, then he straightened himself and recovered his gaiety. Katherine was continuing to talk of weddings, funerals, and Mr March’s Times reading habits.

  ‘You can’t help paying attention to them,’ he told her, ‘when you reach my venerable years. I’ve attended a considerable number of both in my time. And I’ve also been informed of a great many births. Most of the results of which survived,’ Mr March reflected. ‘Even my cousin Oscar’s child – even that lived long enough for me to give it the usual mug.’

  27: ‘My Favourite Child’

  After Katherine’s wedding it seemed as though Mr March was groping round to heal the breach with his son. We had watched him cross the room to Ann at the wedding breakfast; he was acting not happily, not with an easy mind, but impelled to remove some of the weight that had for months, even through the excitement over Katherine, been pressing him down.

  I intruded so far as to tell Charles that he ought to forget the night of the concert, and meet his father more than halfway. Charles himself was happy in the prospect of his marriage, which was fixed for three months ahead. He was also gratified that he could discipline himself enough to work patiently at his medicine; he had done it for a year, and he had no misgivings left. So that he was ready to listen to everything I said. His natural kindness, his deep feeling for his father now shone out. He wanted Mr March to be happy for the rest of his life. He would respond to any overture his father made. I tried to persuade him to go to his father, on his own initiative, and ask to be made independent. I did not need to give him reasons. Speaking to him, I had no sort of foresight. If I had been asked, I should just have said that if a man like Charles had to put up with domination, no good could come of it.

  ‘Do it,’ I pressed him, ‘as though nothing had been said. As though the question hadn’t ever been mentioned before. I believe that he will agree. He’s in danger of losing more than you are, you know.’

  Charles knew all that I meant. But he hesitated. As we talked his face became lined. If Mr March refused, the situation was worse than before. If Mr March refused, it would be even harder for Ann. They would know that all that was left was to put a civil face on things.

  Nevertheless, I pressed him to go. He promised everything else but would not definitely promise that.

  Then Mr March himself showed us the colour of his thoughts when he talked to Charles one Friday night in January.

  It was Mr March’s turn that night to give the family dinner party, and he invited me without any prompting, saying: ‘You might oblige me by filling one of the gaps at my table.’ He had never done so before; I felt the invitation on his own account marked a break with things Mr March had known.

  The dinner party itself had changed since the first I went to. It was neither so lively nor so large. There were only eighteen people this time sitting round the great table at Bryanston Square. Some of the absences were caused by illness, as Mr March’s generation was getting old; Herbert had just had a thrombosis. Florence Simon was married now, and living out of London. While Katherine’s marriage not only kept her away, but at least two of Mr March’s cousins.

  Philip’s glance went round the room, noticing those relatives who had attended his own house the week before but who had not come that night. He said nothing of it to Mr March, and instead chaffed him, as he had done at the wedding, with the dry, elder-brotherly friendliness that had been constant all their lives. But even Philip’s sharp tongue did not make the party go; family gossip never began to flow at its usual rate; by a quarter to eleven the last car had driven away.

  Mr March came into the drawing-room, where Charles and I were sitting. We were sitting as we had been on the night of Charles’ quarrel with his father, after that different dinner party three years before. Mr March sat down and stretched out his h
ands to the fire.

  ‘I never expected to see a Friday night in my own house finished in time for me to have only ten minutes less than my usual allowance,’ he said.

  ‘Mr L,’ said Charles, ‘don’t you remember saying they were nothing like they used to be, even in Uncle Philip’s house? You said that months ago.’

  ‘I appreciate your intention,’ said Mr March, ‘but I am unable to accept it entirely. I never expected to find myself in danger of being in Justin’s position. After his daughter’s marriage he did not venture to hold a Friday night until we were able to reassure him that there would be an adequate attendance. Which we were unable to do until a considerable number of years afterwards. I confess that I am surprised at not having a similar experience.’

  ‘They respect you too much to treat you in the same way,’ said Charles.

  ‘It’s not respect,’ said Mr March. ‘It’s the family that has changed. It’s curious to see the family changing in my own life-time. I’ve already seen most things pass that we used to regard as completely permanent features of the world.’

  He spoke, with regret, in a matter-of-fact, acceptant, almost cheerful tone. He added: ‘As for respect, the nearest I approach it is that at synagogue people are always ready to commiserate on the misfortunes which have happened to me through my children. Last Saturday one fellow insisted on keeping me talking in the rain. He said: “Mr March, I should like you to know I am as upset as you must be to see the Marches fall from their old position.” I acknowledged his remark. The fellow was making it impossible for me to cover myself with my umbrella. He said: “We all feel the decline of our great houses.” I said that it was very civil of him. He said: “Think of your family. Your father was a great man. And his brothers were known outside our community. But your generation, Mr March – I know you will excuse me for speaking frankly – you have just been living on the esteem of your father. What have any of you done compared with the old Marches?” I brought up the name of my brother Philip, but this man replied: “He was lucky enough to be the eldest son of your father. That’s all. And you and your brothers weren’t even that, again speaking frankly, Mr March.”’

  ‘Who was this man?’ Charles asked.

  ‘I refuse to disclose his name,’ said Mr March, still reporting the conversation in such a matter-of-fact way that Charles had to follow suit.

  ‘Is he the man,’ said Charles, ‘who called you a radical reformer because you wanted to let women into the synagogue?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mr March. ‘In any case, that was Hannah’s fault. He proceeded to say: “You and your brothers did nothing to add to the family reputation. While among all your children and nephews and nieces, is there one who won’t subtract something from the family name? Think of your own children. Your son’s just an idler about town. One daughter married a man who lives by his pen. The other daughter has inflicted this great sorrow upon us. Whatever can happen to the next generation of Marches? What about your grandchildren?”’

  ‘I must say,’ said Charles, ‘that he sounds a vaguely disagreeable companion.’

  ‘He was just being frank,’ said Mr March.

  ‘If that’s frankness,’ said Charles, ‘give me a bit of dissimulation.’

  ‘It was possibly true,’ said Mr March, ‘though I thought it was rather pungently expressed. And I wished he had delivered himself before synagogue when it wasn’t raining.’

  ‘I am inclined to think,’ he added, ‘that he represents what a number of my acquaintances are saying.’

  ‘They’re not worth considering.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr March. ‘I can’t help considering anything that is said about the family’s position. These lamentations show how general opinion is preparing to dispose of the family. As I remarked previously, it’s curious to see such changes occur in my own life-time.’

  Charles looked at him, astonished by the fortitude with which Mr March could see part of his world destroyed. He was realistic as ever: nostalgic also (for that was the other side of his realistic temperament), hankering after the world that was gone or going, but not pretending for a moment that it could be saved. His fortitude was stoical: but Charles knew there was nothing light about it. It came out in matter-of-fact terms, but it was only separated from melancholy because the pulse of his vitality was still throbbing deep and strong.

  ‘You might blame me more than you do,’ said Charles.

  ‘I don’t propose to,’ said Mr March. ‘I don’t know how much either you or I can be held to blame. In any case, I should not consider the investigation profitable. We have arrived at the position we are now in. And I lay no claim to a philosophical turn of mind, but I have noticed one result of things changing outside. One has to fall back on those attachments that can’t change so rapidly. After his daughter’s marriage and its regrettable consequences, Justin always devoted himself entirely to his wife.’

  Mr March gazed at his son, and added: ‘Since I am deprived of other consolations, I find that I attach more value to your continued existence.’

  For days afterwards, I kept trying to persuade Charles that now was the time to go to his father. Now if ever was the time. Sometimes he was nearly persuaded. Sometimes he advanced the old arguments. He was not obstinate, he was not resenting my intrusion. He was gripped by an indecision so deep that it seemed physical, not controllable by will. He said: ‘I admit that he spoke with complete sincerity. He always does. He desperately wants everything to be right between us. But you notice that he didn’t mention my marrying Ann? You noticed that, didn’t you?’

  Katherine joined in my efforts, warmly, anxiously, emphatically, when she came to Bryanston Square for a weekend in February. It was two months since her honeymoon, and there was a physical change in her face, as though some of the muscles had been relaxed. She was tranquil, happy, more positive than we had known her. When Charles had told Mr March of his engagement, she had shown less than her usual insight; she had even expected Mr March to be pleased. But now she saw the situation with clear eyes. It was worth the risk, she argued; it was the one step which could set them free with each other.

  Once she grew angry with Charles, and told him that he would surely do it if only Ann were not holding him back. Her concern was so naked and intimate that he did not take offence. She continued to persuade him. For half an hour one night, I thought she had succeeded. Then, suddenly, his mood changed. In fatigue and resignation, he said, smiling at her with extreme affection: ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’d do anything else. But I can’t do it.’

  She knew that the decision was final. She called to see me the next evening in my rooms.

  ‘Lewis,’ she said, ‘I’ve asked Charles if he minds my speaking to Mr L.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He welcomed it. Oh, it’s wretched, don’t you think it’s wretched? He was within an inch of going himself, and yet he simply can’t. I’m appallingly diffident about talking to Mr L myself. But if I don’t, I should feel cowardly for ever. Don’t you agree?’

  Katherine promised to return after she had talked to Mr March. I waited in a fret of apprehension, thinking time after time that it was her footsteps on the stairs. When she came at last, I knew that all had gone wrong.

  She sat down heavily.

  ‘He was absolutely unreasonable,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t even begin to listen to reason. His mind seemed absolutely shut.’

  She had told him that he could not treat Charles like a child; he was a grown man; this attempt to keep him dependent was bound to make a gulf between them. Mr March replied that he did not propose to let such considerations influence his actions. She had told him that his actions were stupid as well as wrong. They could not even have the practical effect he wanted. Charles was committed to becoming a doctor now; and he would marry Ann in April, come what might. Mr March replied that he was aware of these facts; he did not propose to discontinue Charles’ allowance, which might hinder his son’s activities, but he refus
ed, by making him independent, to give any sign of approval to either of his major follies. Katherine begged him to think of his own future relations with Ann. She was going to be his daughter-in-law. For the rest of his life he would meet her. Mr March said that he did not propose to consider the opinions of that young woman on the matter.

  He was not angry, but utterly set in his purpose. He even told her that he needed his son’s affection more than he had ever done; he said, quite naturally, that he had told Charles so. But, on the issue before them, he would not make the slightest concession.

  ‘I do not believe,’ Katherine burst out, ‘that it would have made any difference if Charles had gone himself. I shall always console myself with that. I tell you, I’m sure it’s true.’

  She had finished by asking him to explain the contrast between his gentleness over her own marriage, and this fantastic harshness to Charles. Mr March had not answered for a long time. Then he said, in a sombre tone: ‘He was always my favourite child.’

  Katherine stayed with me for a long time, in order to put off breaking the news to Charles.

  Part Four

  The Dangers

  28: Seventieth Birthday

  Mr March’s seventieth birthday was due in the May of 1936, and for weeks beforehand he had been calling on his younger relatives and friends, insisting that they keep the night of the twenty-second free. It was the only birthday he had celebrated since he was a child; usually he would not have the day so much as mentioned. But some caprice made him want everyone to realize that he was seventy. Many of the very young had not seen him as extravagant as this.

  They had heard the family legends of Uncle Leonard, but they had not often been inside his house, except for the formal Friday nights. Since the marriages of Katherine and Charles five years before, he had given up entertaining the young.

  For his seventieth birthday party, we were each invited, not only by a call from Mr March in person, but also by a long letter in his own hand. Presents were prohibited with violence. None of us knew how large the dinner was to be until we arrived at Bryanston Square; the house was brighter than I ever remembered it, lights streaming on to the square, cocktails, which Mr March had not allowed there before, being drunk in the drawing-room. Mr March was moving from one young relative to another, his coat-tails flapping behind him. Wherever he went one heard noise and laughter.