In Their Wisdom

by C. P. Snow

  Telephone. The one word, Swaffield.

  ‘Yes, Mr Swaffield?’

  ‘I’m sending a car round for you.’

  ‘Oh–’

  ‘I shan’t keep you long. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘It’s rather late, Mr Swaffield. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I’m sending another car for old Symington.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in half an hour. Bless you.’

  As the big Daimler swept her along the Cromwell Road, feeling as though she were being driven to a police station, Jenny tried to nerve herself by grumbling. This is a bit much, she wanted to say out loud, this is more than one can stand.

  He needn’t have left her in suspense. With Symington dragged in too it was something to do with the case. She couldn’t imagine what, gazing out at the brilliant shops. No answer, imagination beating in a vacuum, when the car turned fast along the dark and empty Mayfair streets.

  Swaffield let her in himself. He was wearing both a dinner jacket and a wide assertive smile. Leading her into the morning room, where he had greeted his guests at the party only ten weeks before, he announced that he was going out in a few minutes. Symington had already arrived, no one else but the two of them. Though neither knew it until the following morning, when Symington received a telephone call, Swaffield had also attempted to recruit Lander. But successful counsel were more independent than most men when dealing with financial magnates, and this successful counsel had bourgeois habits and liked his bed time.

  It was soon clear that Symington had been told no more than Jenny. But, though Swaffield had kept them waiting up till now, he did so no longer. They were all standing. He didn’t ask them to sit down.

  He said: ‘You can forget all the talk about a settlement. We’re going through with it.’

  Symington and Jenny looked at each other, expressions washed blank with surprise. It was Jenny who spoke first.

  ‘But you said the opposite, you remember, you said it as strongly as anyone could, in this very house–’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  Symington, much more quietly than Jenny, asked Swaffield if he was taking account of the former Law Officer’s opinion.

  ‘That chap,’ said Swaffield without inflection. He then went on with a remark – having previously behaved like a Prime Minister interpreting intelligence in one way, he now behaved like a Prime Minister finding it convenient to read the appreciation in the diametrically opposite sense – that ‘that chap’ had given them enough to go on.

  ‘You can’t deny it,’ he said with potency.

  Symington hesitated. There was truth in it, the opinion was finely poised.

  Then Symington, smiling, said with a nice mixture of professional authority and deference to a patron: ‘As your lawyer, I think I’m obliged to give you my advice, aren’t I?’

  ‘That’s your privilege.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known you make a bad judgement. But I must say, to the best of my knowledge this one is.’

  Swaffield said: ‘If that’s what you think, you’re right to say so.’

  ‘So you will reconsider it, won’t you?’

  Swaffield gave a fighting grin. ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I feel obliged to press you.’

  Swaffield said: ‘I may as well remind you, whose show this is. I’m picking up the tab.’

  Inflamed, Jenny was just about to flare out, but she caught a warning glance from Symington and managed to bite the words down.

  Swaffield said: ‘Well, that’s all for now. I’m going out.’

  In silence he took them to the Hill Street door and in a tone of obscure triumph said again: ‘Bless you.’

  Symington, apparently self-possessed, talked to the chauffeurs outside, and said that one car was enough to take them both home. When they were sitting inside he muttered: ‘Jenny, this is serious,’ and put an arm round her shoulders, for his consolation as well as hers.

  It was a consolation that this man, whom she had not seen put out until now, seemed as sore within as she was. It had been an indecent display of power. She was rankling more, the further they got away. They had both seen Swaffield exulting in indecency before: they had seen him indulging one of his preposterous whims at another’s expense. What they hadn’t seen before was a whim, when it came to serious business, getting in the way of calculation. He had calculated their strategy over the settlement, and now – without any reason to offer – he was turning it on its head. They couldn’t understand.

  They each sat silent on the drive to Chelsea, although getting out of the car Symington forced himself to add to his good night: ‘Don’t worry too much.’

  Without realising it, they were under the first stress of a similar feeling. It wasn’t entirely humiliation, or puzzlement, or even misgiving. Symington had already defined it for himself, though not in terms of action. That night, Jenny was lost, not only about Swaffield’s motives but her own.

  Swaffield hadn’t offered them a reason, but he had one. He never told them, and they never knew. If it had been one of his ferocious reasons, such as taking maximum revenge on Mrs Underwood, he would have told them, blatantly enough. But this was one of which he was, in some secretive fashion, ashamed. He confided it to no one, at any stage in the future. Not even the two men who had taken part with him in a quiet little scene the day before had any conception of the truth. All they knew, and then not immediately, was that they hadn’t achieved what they came for.

  Giving Symington and Jenny his ultimatum, Swaffield was not being so spontaneous as he appeared. He had let his impulses rip, but only after he had decided to. It had been a day and a half since the quiet little meeting. It had happened like this. Swaffield received a letter from a high functionary of the Tory party, with the good old city name of Meinertzhagen. Could he make it convenient for a couple of friends to wait upon him? Swaffield was somewhat less stately, and by telephone invited the couple of friends around that afternoon to his office in Victoria Street.

  Swaffield did not believe in conspicuous consumption when it came to offices. He worked in a small mustard-coloured room which might have been rented by a very minor consulting engineer, and there came the two friends. In fact, Swaffield had met Meinertzhagen precisely once: the other was Haydon-Smith, presumably chosen, Swaffield thought later, because they wanted a Cabinet Minister, and this was one whom he was known to entertain.

  The meeting lasted less than an hour. There wasn’t a voice raised, nor what Meinertzhagen might have called a word out of place. When he judged it desirable, Swaffield could be as polite as the next man, and on this occasion he was as scrupulously polite as the other two. For the deputation, Meinertzhagen did most of the talking. He was a large man with a cylindrical head, bald except for the ear fringes. His tone was subdued, husky and high-pitched, like that of some great athletes such as W G Grace, but considerably more cultivated. He began by thanking Swaffield for all the services he had done for the party.

  ‘We really do appreciate that,’ he said. ‘We wanted to tell you how grateful we are.’

  ‘Yes, we wanted to,’ said Haydon-Smith.

  ‘We do need people like you. We do hope you realise how much we need you. We haven’t so many friends who can do what you can, you know.’

  ‘I’ve been very glad to make a little contribution,’ said Swaffield, catching the tune.

  ‘You’ve done a great deal for us,’ said Meinertzhagen with earnest persistence, as though Swaffield required much convincing. ‘Everyone realises that. I know that all my colleagues wish me to tell you so.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Haydon-Smith.

  It wasn’t difficult for their colleagues to realise Swaffield’s services. He had given a hundred and fifty thousand to their party funds during the past three years. There was nothing mysterious about this. Swaffield might not be in the least impressed by politics or politicians, but he was a capi
talist, he didn’t indulge in over-refinement, capitalists supported the Tory Party. For his support, he expected recognition in return. Not that anything had been spoken or written on his side or theirs. There hadn’t been a word said, much less, to repeat a beautiful phrase, a word out of place. The most that had been delicately suggested, as by one speaking at a distance or in code, wasn’t any more brutally forthright than a remark by Meinertzhagen now.

  ‘You are always in our minds,’ he said, with more seeping earnestness. ‘We do want you to understand that. You are always in our minds.’

  ‘It’s good of you to say so,’ said Swaffield, also with earnestness.

  Further insistence about the retention of Swaffield in the leaders’ collective mind. Then a shy, tentative smile, and a sincere, firm, intimate address.

  ‘Now, Reginald – if I may call you so – we have a little favour to ask you.’

  It was uncommon of Swaffield not to see the point of a meeting or negotiation. But at this stage he still didn’t.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘This is all extremely ticklish and strictly confidential. Within these four walls–’

  ‘The room isn’t bugged, as far as I know,’ said Swaffield. The other two broke into excessive amusement at this delectable piece of humour.

  ‘Within these four walls,’ Meinertzhagen persevered, ‘some of our people are getting embarrassed. Which is the least we can say. And you know, as well as anyone alive, how the news gets round. We don’t ask you to confirm it or deny it, but there is a general feeling that you have been helping, I’m sure with your usual generosity that we have been trying to express thanks for this afternoon, and I’m sure with nothing to gain yourself, the people who upset that Massie will.’

  As a negotiator, Swaffield was practised at saying nothing.

  ‘We want to impress on you, Reginald, that this is all turning out very embarrassing. You know that the press are getting hold of the story. It’s beginning to involve some very senior members of the party.’ (That meant, Swaffield decided later, not only Hillmorton but the Minister whose wife Julian had slept with.) It might do harm politically. We don’t want any more talk about sex and money anywhere near the party.’

  ‘It can’t be all that significant,’ Swaffield said in an impartial tone. ‘Aren’t you over-stating your case?’

  Meinertzhagen said: ‘Perhaps I’ll withdraw a little, but I want to impress on you that some of our most senior people are seriously distressed. That is certain, and I hope you will accept it from us.’

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘No, I think you would be surprised if we told you that.’

  ‘I’ve seen one woman’s name mentioned. I don’t know anything about her or anyone connected with her.’ Swaffield showed no feeling, and was speaking without assertion or rasp. He was referring to Liz, but by now he had caught on to the other, older, affair. He knew as well as they that the press would have plenty to play with if stories broke out about Julian’s women, particularly that damped-down scandal of ten years before.

  ‘Reginald, this is where we want your co-operation. The worst thing for everyone is for this business to drag on. We are asking you to see that it’s all tied up as soon as may be. Don’t let it get to court again. If it’s handled quietly now, it will only be a nine days’ wonder.’

  All the vibrance was suppressed from Swaffield’s voice, it was kept as gentle as the others.

  ‘I really think there is a little misunderstanding, isn’t there? I’m a complete outsider in this case. I’m not a litigant, I’m not a principal. So it’s not possible for me to pack it up, you see?’

  Meinertzhagen gave a large slow managerial smile.

  ‘A few minutes ago,’ he said, ‘you told us we were doing a little overstatement. Aren’t you doing a little understatement now? I fancy we might suggest that if you used, what shall we call it, your influence, that that could have a distinctly positive effect.’

  ‘If you used your influence,’ said Haydon-Smith, who seemed determined to act as an agreeable chorus.

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t suggest, though, that if I had any influence I ought to do anything unethical with it.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Meinertzhagen, with a shocked expression.

  ‘Some people might possibly consider,’ Swaffield spoke as though meditating, ‘that it was unethical – to ask a woman to share out her money after the courts had decided it was hers. All to avoid a bit of commotion.’

  ‘Forgive me, but we don’t see it quite like that.’

  ‘How do you see it?’

  ‘We see it,’ Meinertzhagen replied, supremely reasonable, ‘as a matter of mutual sacrifice, all for the sake of good relations.’

  ‘Who’s making the sacrifice?’

  ‘She would be giving up a little money. You’d be exerting yourself and using valuable time and energy. We should call it sacrifice all round.’

  ‘All to keep names of eminent people out of the papers.’

  ‘No, Reginald, no, Reginald. All to keep relations as good as they ought to be. As good as we want them to stay.’

  Swaffield didn’t reply. Meinertzhagen said, at his most gentle: ‘That’s why we are asking you this little favour. We feel that it’s not asking you too much, to use your influence. It would be a great pleasure to some of us who, I said before and I repeat, are always thinking of you.’

  Again Swaffield didn’t reply. Meinertzhagen smiled at him and went on: ‘As friend to friend, you know, we consider it might be in your own best interests too. That is, we’re inclined to think that if you didn’t see your way to give us a little help it might slightly affect your relations with some of our people, not seriously of course. Everyone knows what you’ve done, everyone is grateful. But it might make for a little constraint, you know better than I do how people get upset when they feel neglected–’

  The interview went on some minutes longer. Meinertzhagen returned to the topic of Swaffield’s good nature, generosity, and the sweetness and light which he would confer by this small service, Swaffield produced general reflections on the difficulty so often of deciding where one’s duty lay. At last Swaffield promised to think the whole problem over ‘with maximum care’. He would let them know shortly, within days, whether there was anything he felt able to do. They parted with handshakes, cordial greetings to other acquaintances, and expressions of regard.

  Would the other two have guessed Swaffield’s mood as soon as the door was closed? It was a mood of rage, of smouldering, erupting rage: and since Swaffield, despite his whims and wilful antics, was a man whose real emotions stayed constant, more so than most men’s, that mood lasted all through the next day, was still dominating him when he gave his orders to Symington and Jenny. Much of this would have seemed farcical to anyone who wanted to minimise him. For Swaffield, when in one of his passions, had a habit of talking to himself and speaking of himself in the third person. ‘Christ Almighty! So they think they can buy off Reg Swaffield. Reginald – no one’s called him that since he got married in church. They are telling Reg Swaffield to play ball, and then they might consider giving him something. God damn them to hell.’

  That same evening, ‘That chap Hillmorton had better look out, so had Edward Clare. Snakes in the grass. They’ve got the nerve to tell Reg Swaffield that if he doesn’t play ball they’ll cut his throat and he’ll get nothing. That was a threat if ever there was one. People don’t threaten Reg Swaffield and get away with it. God damn it, he hasn’t been threatened for thirty years. Reg, my boy, now’s the time to see them in hell first. You tell them you’re not playing, and then rub it in. What a blasted crowd. You’ve got on without them. You can get on without them now. You might pull down the whole rotten show.’

  The listening enemy would have found it singularly ridiculous. After all, this kind of implicit deal wasn’t exactly a novelty. Swaffield must have done it himself times enough. Great magnates shouldn’t take offence like this. Great m
agnates shouldn’t indulge in gestures at their own expense. They shouldn’t do any of those things, but Swaffield did them all. After a day’s brooding (his calculating mind cool, co-existing with the rage) he wrote a note to Meinertzhagen, that he still couldn’t see his way entirely clear about the suggestion made the afternoon before. That was a prim little note, but he was anticipating a scene later on, and it was a rousing thought.

  He had made his decision, sent off the note, before he gave any intimation to another person, either to the lawyer or Jenny, who later that night were hearing what he had already, to his own satisfaction, settled flat.

  21

  There were times when Ryle couldn’t repress asking Hillmorton a question about Liz just for the pleasure, or the mirage satisfaction, of mentioning her name. He knew that he could only get evasive exercises in reply, and he knew too by now that Hillmorton had his own private entertainment because his old and sensible friend was not behaving like an old and sensible man.

  Ryle didn’t excuse himself: though in fact, apart from those questions to Liz’s father, he didn’t commit other follies in action, even if some filtered through his mind. He had once given Liz advice on this same topic: he must have been one of the few men, it occurred to him, to follow his own advice himself. Yet, sitting in his drawing-room at Whitehall Court, he sometimes felt the spring of the nerves when the telephone rang: only to find that it was his stockbroker or accountant.

  Still, he was learning, late in life, what less stable men discover earlier; that any expectation, even a frustrated one, is – at any rate in its first stages – better than none. His spirits were higher than the year before, when he was at peace, anticipating nothing. A couple of days before the Christmas recess he was settled in his place in the Chamber, listening with some approach to content as fellow members expressed themselves.