In Their Wisdom

by C. P. Snow

  That room in chambers was as shabby and dilapidated as March’s own dress (now that he had taken off the gown he had been wearing in court, his collar was seen to be rumpled, his shirt not fresh), a room which only a successful counsel would afford. It had no more an air to impress than a station waiting room. Even the bookcases were half empty, and if inspected revealed only a few law books, more novels. Just for once, that might have been an affectation of an unaffected man. There was a library of law books in the anteroom close by. But March had an abnormally precise memory, something like a trick memory, and in his younger days had shown it off to clients and their solicitors. It had been part of his stock-in-trade at the Bar. As for the novels, that wasn’t an affectation but a habit. They were the classical nineteenth century novels in old editions, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Dickens, Trollope, Balzac, Galdós. Again in younger days, he had found them a comfort, allied with a good deal of whisky, when he was struggling against one of his depressive phases. No writer this century, he had been heard to announce in his Johnsonian fashion, had taught him anything about people that he didn’t know better than they did: but he had learned quite a lot from their predecessors.

  ‘Well,’ he said, bulking above the rest, at the same time slack and massive, ‘shall we get round the table?’

  The table was large, covered with green baize as though in a bureaucrat’s room in Eastern Europe. Apart from March’s desk, chair and a wide settee on which he liked to lie and read, it was normally the only piece of furniture in the room, though that evening other chairs had been brought in from outside. They sat round it, March at one end, Mrs Underwood on his right, Julian on his left, Skelding opposite to him, Liz and a couple of his pupils seated in between. There was dim lighting from a chandelier above the table and a green shaded reading lamp on the desk. One of the pupils switched on the standard light beside the settee and that shone upon the faces of those on March’s right.

  ‘You had something to tell us, Eric, I think,’ said March down the table. Skelding had, and proceeded to tell it. He was not deterred, any more than he had been at the disclosure of the will eighteen months before, by the fact that he had already reported the terms of the offer to Mrs Underwood. That is, she, Julian and Liz already knew all that he was saying, and March – with whom he had had a telephone conversation – most of it. This did not deter Eric Skelding, nor detract at all from his simple pleasure. He was speaking with the enthusiasm, as though astonished himself at what he had just discovered, of one who is at liberty to confide a state secret.

  He was not going to be fretted into cutting his pleasure short. March, who accepted that Skelding was a most good-natured man, far more so than himself, thought it was a pity that good-natured men could be so preternaturally boring. This could have been said in five minutes. It wasn’t. Preliminary talks with ‘young Symington’, putting out feelers, premature talk of figures, hints of Symington suggesting twenty-five per cent, all explained with merciless love, like water dripping in a bedroom. Story of the local vicar, everyone agreed that the Court of Appeal wouldn’t admit the evidence; further, if it had been given before Mr Justice Bosanquet it wouldn’t have convinced him.

  ‘Which seems rather to reduce its relevance,’ March couldn’t resist inserting.

  Skelding gave a broad beaming smile. He disarmed criticism when he was being tedious by saying that he was. That didn’t make him hurry. He went into intricacies about the second round of bargaining.

  ‘I could feel I was upping them. Upping them,’ he said, proud of his command of the modern language. ‘I could feel in my bones that they were ready to go up to thirty-five per cent. One feels one’s way. That wasn’t the time to seem to argue. We went into a state of suspended animation.’

  That concept appeared to Skelding very funny, more so than to his audience.

  ‘Then young Symington happened to come across me in the club, accidentally on purpose if you follow my interpretation, and this was a different cup of tea. He meant business, and I would have bet my boots that if we didn’t settle now we never should. Cards on the table. This time he didn’t mind mentioning figures. Forty per cent he said, that’s a fair offer. I’d always had at the back of my mind that we should ask for half and then expect that at the end of the day we should have to come down. Not quite good enough, I said. Fifty per cent would be more suitable. I knew, and he knew, that that wasn’t really on. In their position they couldn’t do it. No responsible people could. Young Symington is quick off the mark when he wants to be. He said, ‘I’ll meet you half way. Forty-five per cent.’ I didn’t want to be precipitate, I thought I might stand out for another one or two per cent. I explored a bit more, but then I thought, was it wise to open our mouths too wide? To cut a long story short, I told young Symington that I would be prepared to lay that offer in front of my clients.’

  Skelding subsided, like an exceptionally modest conjurer, trick triumphant, backing into the limelight.

  ‘To cut a long story short,’ said March, elephant-eyed. ‘I must say, Eric, it sounds as good as we shall get. Better than I reckoned on.’

  He meant that. The method of slow talk, they would call it: but it often worked. The unborable made good bargainers.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Liz with urgency.

  ‘Well done,’ said Mrs Underwood, also with urgency.

  One of the pupils asked if this type of negotiation often required so many steps.

  ‘One feels one’s way,’ said Eric Skelding, again with modesty.

  ‘Give Mr Skelding another drink and a pat on the back,’ said March to the other pupil. ‘Well, this is about the end. We seem to be home and dry. With a certain amount of honour.’

  Julian threw back his head and gave a long, hilarious, hooting laugh.

  ‘I’ve been doing some sums,’ he announced, with his most infantile expression.

  ‘Have you?’ said March, off-hand and uninterested.

  ‘I’m not very good at arithmetic, of course,’ Julian went on. ‘So I hope I’ve got it right.’

  Actually, his mother and Liz both knew that he had gone over his calculations like old Gobseck counting pieces of gold, on an addict checking his football pools on Saturday night: but neither knew what he was going to say next.

  ‘I make it that, all the pennies paid out, all of you getting your whack, including the Senior Partner–’

  ‘Who the hell is the Senior Partner?’ March was getting restive.

  ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer, of course. Well, when you’ve all dipped your fingers in, I stand to collect about £60,000 clear. And our dear friend Mrs Rastall about £70,000. Do correct me if I’ve done it wrong?’

  ‘It’s early days to make an estimate,’ said Skelding, prudent and paternal. ‘But perhaps one can say that’s somewhere near the mark.’

  ‘All agree?’ said Julian, brightly smiling.

  No one disagreed.

  ‘Yes.’ Julian gave another laugh. ‘Then I’m very sorry to disturb the beautiful harmony of this beautiful afternoon. I am so very sorry. But I’m not playing.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ cried Liz. She had been anxious all along. He had said nothing to her, but she had learned the air of satisfied salacious delight with which he kept a secret.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said March.

  ‘I really think I do. After all I’m the principal beneficiary. That gives me some sort of standing, shouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Skelding remained reasonable, ‘you haven’t considered all the consequences.’

  ‘I rather think I have. All we have to do is to go on with this appeal. We shall win it. And Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘You’re not a lawyer.’ March was now exerting himself. ‘You’d be foolish if you didn’t listen to lawyers.’

  ‘Oh, I am very foolish, very often, ask anyone.’

  ‘For God’s sake stop it,’ said Liz.

  ‘Just for the record, I did read law, a little, o
nce.’ Julian gazed open-eyed at March.

  ‘That’s worse than useless, as you ought to know.’

  ‘No, I learned one thing. Everyone always gets everything wrong.’

  That was said with consummate cheek. March, for once misjudging an opponent, brushed him off.

  ‘Any lawyer in England will tell you that the appeal is more likely than not to fail. Appreciably more likely than not. Your opinion isn’t worth wasting time over.’

  ‘Please listen,’ said Mrs Underwood to her son across the table.

  ‘Darling. Be said,’ begged Liz, in agitation regressing to an old lower-class idiom that she must have picked up from a nanny.

  ‘This isn’t your affair,’ he said with sexual contempt. It was said quietly, but for an instant the table was silent and constrained.

  ‘You had all better leave this to me.’ March took command. In the doughy face the small acute eyes were fixed on Julian.

  ‘I tell you, this cock won’t fight. The odds are against. The appeal hasn’t a good enough chance. We have an excellent settlement.’

  ‘Not excellent enough.’

  ‘It’s time you used a little common sense, which I hope you possess.’

  The struggle had become confined to the two men. Because that was so, to the others it appeared to last longer than the clock time showed. On one side, March, massive, weighty, bringing out all his personal resources, as a matter of technique letting his sarcasms fly. On the other Julian, talking like a playboy, facetious, not respectful, not appearing to care what March thought of him. Between them there weren’t even the amenities. March didn’t conceal, not only disregard, but scorn or something like revulsion.

  Julian wasn’t moved. He mightn’t know much law, he said, but he could read. Any appeal judge reading the court proceedings would get a neutral impression. Personalities wouldn’t enter, the facts would tell. The facts were strong.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ replied March, ‘do you think you’re capable of judging?’

  Julian replied: ‘Do you? Does anyone?’

  ‘I’m trying to decide,’ said March, ‘whether the course of action you’d like to persuade us into is more irresponsible than just plain stupid.’

  March sounded reflective. He was in control of his tongue as he was in court, but there was temper smouldering underneath.

  He said: ‘I do find it difficult to decide. I’m trying to.’

  ‘Go on trying,’ said Julian encouragingly. ‘But I don’t think this is getting very profitable, do you? Anyway, I really fancy I’ve had enough of it. I may as well give you a reason you might possibly be able to understand. You see, £60,000 odd is no good to me. I can’t live on that as I should rather like to live. I can just as well potter on as I am. If I collect the whole pool, that makes a difference. So it’s worth going all or nothing. Anyone understand?’ He gazed round the table and then back to March.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, you said something about me persuading you into this. That’s not quite the position, as it happens. I hate to be crude, but I’m not persuading you, I’m telling you. Sorry.’

  Liz plucked his sleeve, her face white, lines deep in her forehead. She whispered, and others caught the word ‘realistic’.

  ‘No.’ Julian spoke to her audibly, quite gently this time. ‘I’m much more realistic than you when it comes to the point.’

  His mother, who had scarcely uttered throughout the altercation, looked in what seemed hopelessness or surrender towards Skelding. He stirred from his seat like a man making a formal statement: ‘I have to say to you that this would be a dreadful mistake.’

  ‘That’s the least of it,’ March said.

  ‘Well, you can always get out, you know,’ Julian’s innocent eyes were bright and shining. ‘I’m sure I could find another counsel who won’t mind dipping in for his whack of the costs. I’m sure I can find another solicitor too, Mr Skelding, if you really find it too intolerable. And we shall all perfectly understand.’

  March gave a rough outburst of a laugh.

  ‘No. Speaking for myself, if you insist on throwing good money after bad, I’ll take it. I’ll do the appeal as well as anyone else you’d get. Any competent man would be about as good. But it wouldn’t be sensible to switch horses now.’

  That was the end. No further argument. Skelding said that the other side would have to be informed. Negotiations had failed. No settlement was acceptable. Skelding said that in the rounded tones of a lifetime’s practice, and no one gave a thought to what he was feeling, or imagined that he might be feeling anything.

  March nodded without expression or even interest, dismissing the case from his mind. After all, this fool was his client, he had none of Symington’s professional complications.

  As the others broke up and left the room, March was sitting at the table and pouring himself a drink.

  At their ritual dinner that Friday he told his friend Lander about the conference, the result of which Lander had, through Symington as Jenny’s lawyer, already heard.

  ‘It was a triumph of will. Just sheer will,’ said March, with a puzzled candid smile. ‘I didn’t think I was easy to get down. But that wretched layabout had more will than I had. Much more than anyone there. It shows how wrong you can be.’

  March, though he had an honest mind, didn’t relish confessing defeat. It might have been a consolation, if someone disinterested had told them that, in a certain restricted sense, Julian had a stronger will than anyone connected, even peripherally, with the Massie business. Stronger than those of eminent worthies such as Hillmorton or Ryle: stronger perhaps than Swaffield’s, who might be the nearest competitor. It took an abnormally strong will to live as Julian had lived, doing nothing which he didn’t want to do. It wasn’t admirable, it could be at the same time silly and destructive, but it was there. His mother knew this. She had lost in every conflict of wills since he was a child. His women knew it, Liz most clearly of all. Maybe it gave him his power over them.

  Neither March nor Lander had any idea of that particular power of Julian’s. They wouldn’t have liked him better if they had. Over the dinner table Lander was expressing the simple desire to kick his arse. They speculated a little on the motive behind his final piece of obstinacy. It might be simply the money, as he had declared. Mixed with motiveless mischief? Or was it conceivable that he wanted revenge – revenge for his mother being humiliated by old Bosanquet. ‘Too subtle,’ said Lander. ‘That’s giving him too much credit.’

  Then March was ruminating on the part will played in human affairs. Far more than personal relations, he had long ago decided. People didn’t do anything for you because they were fond of you. That was what the unworldly thought. Or because you had done something for them. There was an old folk saying – was it Russian? – ‘Why does he hate me so much? I’ve never done him any good.’ No, affection didn’t count much, except with exceptionally fine characters. Will counted much more; so did fear. If they knew your will was stronger or were afraid of you, you sometimes won. It was even better if they knew or felt that you were cold inside. That was the sort of man who, for many, captured loyalty. Probably it was true of ‘that beastly creature’ (Julian).

  ‘Not much hope for us,’ said Lander, as usual rubbing it in.

  As a result of Julian’s victory, the two of them would be opponents again in the Court of Appeal. They knew each other’s talents to the syllable, and there Lander would have a slight edge.

  ‘Want a small bet on it?’ he said, not being a betting man.

  ‘Perhaps not this time,’ said David March, who was.

  Swaffield had to be informed by Symington that their own conference, which would have been convened within a fortnight, was pointless now. Swaffield was furious. Furious with Symington for bringing such news, responding like other potentates to anyone who brought bad news. Swaffield also had a shrewd idea that Symington hadn’t obeyed his instructions, or had been trying to slip through them.

  Swaffield, whose impulses
didn’t die down but reinforced themselves, had been looking forward to a final act of assertion. He had also been looking forward to a scene with Meinertzhagen, Haydon-Smith and anyone whom they chose to bring along, not a nice quiet gentlemanly scene this time. That would have given Swaffield considerable satisfaction. As it was, he had made a gesture, a poor half-hearted gesture, for nothing. Doing himself some harm.

  Swaffield frequently wanted to make gestures, but except among his dependents restrained himself. They were an indulgence, and in action, though not in his rebellious outsider’s soul, he didn’t go in for indulgences. So now, fuming internally, taking it out on any member of his court within hearing, he set to work to repair channels of communication. Meinertzhagen, Haydon-Smith, half a dozen other bleeders and their bitches of women (Swaffield was talking to himself) had better be invited to some function they would be too mean to give themselves.

  Meanwhile, Symington and Jenny had no chance to show how they would have behaved if it had come to the crisis. They didn’t know for certain and in the nature of things couldn’t know when they looked back. Nor did those closest to them. In secret Alison Symington, loving her husband, believed he would have taken the line which, so she had to infer, David March had taken. He would have found it a moral strain, and he wouldn’t have pretended it wasn’t, but in the end he would have accepted it. He lived in this mundane world and there were limits to responsibility. Alison also thought that one day, perhaps only once, he would break through those limits. But it wouldn’t have been this time. She was relieved that he hadn’t been tested.

  On the other hand, Lorimer, who had a simple faith in Jenny, didn’t doubt what she would have done. She had her courage, she had her honour, and she would have lived up to them. Jenny herself wasn’t by any means so certain. Splitting irrevocably with Swaffield – that meant security thrown away, and yet, after all, she was too practical not to count the credits. Any settlement even with all the money she would have to repay Swaffield, would bring her quite a lot of cash down. And also (and here perhaps she underrated herself, and Lorimer was nearer the truth) she liked being honest and behaving according to her code. Perhaps she would have done so. Only God, in whom she didn’t believe, could know, If she had, she would have enjoyed a rip-roaring row with Swaffield, as much as he would the one of which he had been deprived.