by C. P. Snow
‘Was this a fork supper, Mr L?’ asked a niece, waving at the plates.
‘I don’t know what else you’d call it,’ said Mr March. ‘The over-ostentation of the provender was nevertheless not the main point at issue. One could possibly have contemplated nine courses until one was discouraged by hearing the footman ask “What would you like to drink, sir?” One then enquired for possible alternatives and was given the choice “Orangeade, lemonade, lemon squash, lime juice, ginger beer, ginger ale, barley water…” It was always said that when Herbert dined there he put a flask of brandy in his trouser pocket and made an excuse to go to the lavatory at least twice during the proceedings.’ Mr March raised his voice above questions, comments, grins:
‘The presumed discomfort to Lewis Eliot as a teetotaller entering this, a non-teetotal house, was in my judgement less than that experienced by myself at Archibald Waley’s.’ He added: ‘In practice, Lewis Eliot turned out not to be a teetotaller at all. As could have been ascertained from the person instrumental in giving me the pleasure of his company. That person being my son Charles.’
No one said anything. Mr March went on: ‘At that time there was nothing to prevent me communicating with my son Charles. However, I did not, at least upon the point under discussion.’
He said it with absolute stoicism. It was a stoicism which stopped any of us taking up the reference to Charles, or mentioning him again.
I left early, before any of the others. In the square it was cold enough to take one’s breath, and in the wind the stars flashed and quivered above the tossing trees. Trying to find a taxi, I walked along the pavement, across the end of the square, as I had walked with Charles after my first visit to the house, listening to him talk about his father. I was not thinking of them, though: my thoughts had gone to my own house. Just for a random instant, I recalled our housekeeper running down the local doctors, and then admitting, in a querulous, patronizing fashion, that some people in Pimlico spoke of Charles March as a good doctor, and seemed to trust him now. That thought did not last: it drifted into others of our housekeeper, my own home.
Standing at the corner, I stamped my feet, waiting for a taxi. Through the bare trees of the garden, I could see a beam of light, as the door of Mr March’s house opened, letting out some more of his guests. Soon the party would be over. He would test the latches and switch off the lights: then he would be left in his own company.
35: The Future of Two Old Men
Since the first instalment in the Note, Charles and Mr March had not met nor spoken to each other. Charles had, however, telephoned to Katherine after the visit to Seymour. He had told her, so I gathered, that Ann had done her best to call the paper off. Whether either Katherine or Mr March believed this, I had no means of judging. But they knew I had been present. Within a few days I received a letter from Mr March, telling me that he needed my ‘friendly assistance’: would I lunch with him at his club, so that we could go together to Sir Philip’s office afterwards.
The club servants were surprised to see Mr March there in the month of August, having got used to the clockwork regularity of his life; he had not left Haslingfield during his summer stay for twenty years. Just as, though he went to the club for tea each day he was in London, he had not lunched there since Charles was a child. He did not know where or how to write his order, and had to be helped by the servants. They teased him for it: he, usually so uncondescending, was gruff with them.
He said little at the meal. We had a table to ourselves, but those round us were soon filled. I saw one or two faces I knew, all of civil servants from the departments close by. I felt that Mr March, unable to talk of the bitter anxiety in his mind, was also depressed because he recognized so few. There were only two men he nodded to, and they were very old.
In Pall Mall, on our way to Sir Philip’s ministry, he tried to rouse himself from his gloom. We turned into St James’s Park towards Whitehall, and Mr March looked over the trees at the dome of the India Office, the roofs and towers, all soft and opal grey in the moist sunlight.
‘I must say,’ he remarked, ‘that it looks comparatively presentable. But I have never been able to understand the fascination which makes my brother Philip and others wish to spend their entire lives in this neighbourhood. I once said as much to Hannah, and she replied that it was sour grapes on my part. No doubt I was envious on account of my failure to cut any kind of figure in the world. Nevertheless, Lewis, if I hadn’t been a failure, and had been given my choice of where to have a reasonable success, I should not have chosen this particular neighbourhood.’
His face darkened in a scowl of misery and anger. ‘But my brother Philip did. I cannot endure the thought that, because of these happenings, he may find it harder to continue here.’
In the ministry we were led down the corridors to the office of Sir Philip’s secretary, who was a youngish man called Williams, smooth-faced, spectacled, dressed for his job in black coat and striped trousers, and full of self-importance in it. ‘I will go and find out when the Parliamentary Secretary will be free,’ he said, enjoying the chance to bring out his master’s appellation. He came back promptly and announced: ‘The Parliamentary Secretary will be glad to see you at once.’
We went through the inside door, and Sir Philip came across his room to meet us. He shook hands with Mr March, then said ‘How do you do?’ to me with his stiff, furrowed smile. As he sat down at his desk by the window which overlooked the park, I saw that his skin had taken on a yellowness, a matt texture, such as one sometimes sees in ageing men. He was seventy-three, only three years older than Mr March, but in the bright summer light the difference looked much greater.
‘I expect you’re dying of drought as usual at Haslingfield,’ Sir Philip began their ritual of brotherly baiting. ‘The country is under water everywhere else.’
‘I regard the rainfall as having been reasonable for once,’ said Mr March. ‘And I am pleased to report that I have sufficient water for my requirements.’
These exchanges went on for a few moments. They had made them for so many years, and Sir Philip at least could not let go of them now: Mr March’s replies were forced and mechanical. Sir Philip was, as the afternoon began, by far the less perturbed of the two. Soon he said: ‘I suppose we must get down to business. I should like to say, Eliot, that I am obliged to you for giving me your time. I should be glad to regard it as a professional service, of course, but my brother informs me that you are certain to prefer it otherwise. I appreciate your feelings and, as I say, I am obliged to you. I think you know some of the facts of this affair. In May there was some gossip about myself and some of my colleagues. We were alleged to have used our official knowledge during the past twelve months to buy holdings in companies where government contracts were soon going to be laid. This gossip also included some names outside the government, one of them being that fellow Getliffe. It has now been published, or at least a first instalment has. I believe you’ve seen it?’
I nodded.
‘I can answer for myself and my colleagues,’ Sir Philip went on. ‘So far as we are concerned, there’s not a word of truth in it. When I came back into the Government last year, I decided to spend the rest of my life being as useful to the country as I could, if they wanted me. It was a sacrifice, but I believe that some of us have got to accept responsibility. These aren’t easy years to hold responsibility: I needn’t tell you that.’
Even Sir Philip, I was thinking, could not avoid the expressions of convention, talked about ‘sacrifice’, perhaps used the word to himself – even Sir Philip, who was not a humbug but a hard and realistic man, who loved office and power and knew that he loved it.
‘I was prepared to make the sacrifice,’ Sir Philip went on. ‘I had to resign my directorships when I became a minister, naturally. I also decided to finish with all speculation. I’ve already told Leonard this.’ He glanced at Mr March.
‘I acknowledged your assurance,’ said Mr March, ‘on hearing it at your bedside du
ring your period of incapacity owing to gout.’
‘I finished with it,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I am not a rich man, of course, but I can get along. I have not taken part in any single transaction since I entered the government last November. I cannot make such a categorical statement for my colleagues whose names have been bandied about, but I’m completely satisfied that they are clear.’
‘You mentioned people outside the government,’ I broke in. ‘I’m also satisfied in the same way about Getliffe.’
‘You mean he’s bought nothing in the last twelve months?’
‘Nothing that could be thought suspicious.’
‘What evidence are you going on?’
‘Nothing as definite as yours,’ I said. ‘But I’ve talked to him on this actual point, and I know him well.’
‘I reported Lewis Eliot’s observations on this matter,’ said Mr March.
Sir Philip’s eyes were bright and alert. ‘You’re convinced about this fellow Getliffe?’
‘Quite convinced,’ I said.
‘I accept that,’ said Sir Philip. ‘And it makes me certain that the whole campaign is a put-up job and there’s no backing to it at all.’
Mr March, who had been listening with painful attention, showed no relief as he heard these words. He looked at his brother, with an expression stupefied, harassed, distressed.
‘That being so,’ I said, ‘your solicitors are telling you to go ahead with a libel action, aren’t they?’
‘It’s not quite so easy,’ Sir Philip replied without hesitation, in a tone as authoritative as before. I admired his hard competence. Professionally, I thought, he would have been an ideal client. ‘They’ve tied up this affair with certain other transactions. The other transactions are supposed to have happened when I was in the government in 1929. You will notice that, in the case of Getliffe, they have taken care to tie these two allegations together. It is clever of them. I detest their politics, I’ve no use for their general attitude, and if I can put them in their place, I shall – but we mustn’t imagine that we are dealing with fools.’
‘I have never thought so,’ said Mr March.
‘If they go ahead with these allegations about last year, I should win a libel action, shouldn’t I?’ Sir Philip asked me.
‘Without the slightest doubt,’ I said.
‘I should also do myself more harm than good,’ he went on.
I was thinking how precisely Seymour had calculated the risk.
‘There happens to be some substance in what they say about 1929,’ said Sir Philip.
We waited for him to go on.
‘I may say at once that I’ve done nothing which men of decent judgement could think improper. But one step I took in good faith which these people may twist against me. I am very much to blame for giving them such a handle. I’ve always thought it was not only essential to be honest: it was also essential to seem honest. I take all the blame for not seeing further than my nose. That is the only blame I am disposed to take.’
He paused, and gave a sardonic chuckle.
‘I should like to distinguish my actions from Getliffe’s quite sharply. In 1929 Getliffe made a disgraceful use of information he had acquired professionally. In my judgement, there is no question of it. He knew the government were giving a contract to Howard & Hazlehurst. He used catspaws to buy a fair-sized block of shares. He must have done very well out of it. Howard & Hazlehurst were down to 9s. in 1929: they stand at 36s. today.’
‘Thirty-six and sixpence,’ said Mr March, as though by sheer habit.
‘Getliffe is a twister and I shouldn’t have the faintest compunction about going ahead with a libel action if it only meant involving him. If he were disbarred, I should simply consider that he had brought it on himself. He’s downright dishonest, and I was sorry that you’ – he turned to Mr March – ‘permitted Katherine to marry into the fellow’s family. Though I’ve always liked Francis from the little I’ve seen of him.’
Mr March burst out, in violent and excessive anger: ‘I refuse to accept that criticism at the present juncture. My son-in-law has made an excellent husband for my daughter Katherine in all respects. I refused at the time to penalize them on account of his regrettable connections, and I still refuse, despite the fact that Herbert Getliffe’s name is linked with yours in these deplorable circumstances. I refuse to accept this preposterous criticism. If other marriages in my family had been as sound as my daughter’s, we should not be troubled with the discussion on which we are supposed to be engaged.’
Sir Philip seemed to understand his brother’s rage.
‘Yes, Leonard,’ he said, with an awkward, constrained affection. ‘But you can appreciate that Getliffe isn’t my favourite character just at present, can’t you?’ His tone became once more efficient, organized, businesslike. ‘My own activities were considerably different from that fellow’s. I only spent a few months in the government in 1929, you may remember, but of course I knew of the Howard & Hazlehurst contract, and of course I knew of the trend of policy about armaments. Naturally I thought over the implications, which appeared to suggest that, even at the height of disarmament, certain types of weapon would still have to be developed. So certain firms connected with those types of weapon would flourish for the next few years. That wasn’t a foolish piece of reasoning, and I felt entitled to act on it. If one struck lucky, one had a good buy. I looked round at various firms. I found one which was in fairly low water, and I backed my guess. The shares were down somewhere that didn’t matter, and I put in a fairish sum of money. My guess came off, but I should have preferred it otherwise. For this firm was bought by Howard & Hazlehurst three months after I had put my money in. I had no conceivable foreknowledge of that transaction. I did very well out of it, from the nature of the case. So did one or two of my colleagues, who sometimes follow my guidance in financial matters. It’s apparent that an ugly construction would be put on our actions – and these people are putting it. The facts are as I have stated them.’
He looked at Mr March and me in turn.
‘I know there are silly persons who, without imputing motives, would still think that what Getliffe and I did were very much the same. I find those silly persons both tiresome and stupid. The point is that Getliffe acted in a way which the rules don’t permit, while I kept strictly inside them. That is the only point. There are no absolute principles in these matters. There are simply rules on which all financial dealings depend. If you upset them, you upset the whole structure. If the rules go, then confidence and stability go. That is why I should show no mercy to anyone who breaks them. I should be sorry to see Getliffe escape scot-free.’
He added: ‘It would not have occurred to me to break the rules. I blame myself for giving the appearance of having done so. I have had a long life in these matters, and I have never taken part in a transaction of which I am ashamed. The only thing left is to stop this business before it goes further. I want to ask you whether that is in our power.’
His conscience was clear, his self-respect untouched. Mr March had reported, after visiting him when ill, that his brother was ‘sick in mind’; but it was not through any inner conflict. He was certain of his integrity. Yet he was desperately taxed. He was an old man, threatened with humiliation. In his hard, simple, strong-willed fashion he had coiled himself up to meet the danger. Throughout the afternoon he had kept his authority. But as he asked ‘whether that is in our power’ his face was shrunken: he still controlled his tone, but he looked imploring.
I saw that Mr March was stricken by this change. All through the afternoon, he had been torn by a sorrow his brother did not know; but even without that, he would still have flinched from the sight of Philip turning to him for pity and help. It had been painful to him to see the first traces of Philip’s anxiety, when he was ill: it was worse now. For Philip had been the hero of his childhood, the brother who did all that he would have liked to do, the brother who had none of his timidities, who was self-sufficient, undiffide
nt, effective: it was intolerable to see him weak. It filled Mr March with revulsion, even with anger against Philip.
Mr March said in a low voice to his brother: ‘As I’ve already told you, whether it is in our power or not depends on my son’s wife.’
‘I still don’t believe it,’ said Sir Philip.
‘Will you tell my brother whether she’s responsible for this, or not?’ said Mr March to me.
‘How much do you know about this?’ Sir Philip asked me.
‘Have you told Sir Philip,’ I asked Mr March, ‘that she’s tried to set it right?’
‘I remain to be convinced of that,’ said Mr March.
‘I assure you.’
‘All I can do,’ said Mr March, ‘is acknowledge your remark.’
‘Why are you making it worse than it need be?’ I cried. I explained as much as I was free to do of her share in the story, and of how she had made her plea to Seymour and been refused. As I was speaking, Sir Philip’s face was lighter, more ready to credit what I said, than his brother’s, which was set in an obstinate, incredulous frown. Yet at last Mr March said, as though reluctantly: