George Passant

by C. P. Snow

  I nodded.

  ‘I’ve given them up, you know. Do you really think I don’t miss them? Or that I actually enjoy the things I have now in their place?’

  ‘I expect there’s a difference.’

  ‘You must try to see.’ Martineau was smiling. ‘I am happy, I know. I’m happy. I’m happier because I’ve given up my pleasures. But it’s not because of the actual fact of giving them up. It’s because of the state it’s going to bring me to.’

  19: George Calls on Morcom

  I spent the weekend alone in my room: on Sunday I felt better, though still too tired to stir. I could do no more, I worked all day and at night sat reading with a convalescent luxury. But on Monday, after tea, that false calm dropped away as I heard a tread on the stairs. George came in – a parody of a smile on his lips.

  ‘They’ve arranged it,’ he said. He swore coldly. ‘They’ve managed it very subtly. And insulted me at the same time.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I went to remind Eden today that the time had lapsed.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘What does it matter whether it’s wise or not? Did the man think he could keep me in suspense forever? I’d got a perfect right to go and ask him what he had decided about the firm.’

  ‘And he told you–’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’ George laughed. ‘He was very genial and avuncular. He was quite glad to tell me. He went so far as to reassure me – I wasn’t to be afraid the change would make any difference to my position. The swine had the impertinence to hint that I thought of myself like any office boy in danger of being dismissed. That’s one of the pleasant features of the whole business: Eden having the kindness to say he wasn’t going to dismiss me. He even went so far as to mention that he and Martineau had both had a high opinion of my ability, and that I’d done good work for the firm. That was the second insult. And the third was when he said I might have slightly more work to do under the new arrangement: so he proposed to give me an extra twenty-five pounds a year.’

  ‘He meant it good-naturedly.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ George shouted. ‘If you say that you’re merely associating yourself with the insults. It was completely deliberate. He knew he could go as far as he wanted. And he knew, if he insulted me with an offer like that, I had to accept it. But I don’t think I left him under the illusion that I accepted it very gratefully.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘After he’d made it quite clear that he intended to do nothing for me, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t let him know that he was acting atrociously. So I inquired point blank whether he had considered asking me into the firm. Anyway, I had the satisfaction of making him feel ashamed of himself. He said he had thought about the matter – very carefully – very carefully.’ In the middle of George’s violence, I saw his eyes were bewildered. ‘And although he’d like to very much for many reasons, he thought the present time wasn’t very opportune. I told him there would never be a more opportune one. Then he tried to stand on his dignity and said he proposed not to discuss it now. I asked him when there would be an opportune time and when he proposed to discuss it. He hedged. I kept at him. In the end he said it wouldn’t be until he saw how I developed in the next few years. I asked him what he was implying. He said it was too embarrassing for us both for him to discuss it with me there and then, but that he’d had a few words about it with a friend of mine. He might be able to give me a fairer idea. You realise who that is?’ George’s voice filled the room.

  ‘Morcom, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘I shall go and get things straight with Morcom,’ George said.

  ‘Wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Why should I wait? I only want to explain a few things.’

  ‘Look here,’ I said. ‘I was there one night when Morcom was trying to defend you–’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said George. ‘You’d better come. I don’t want you to be deluded. In any case, I’m going there now.’

  When we had walked through the back streets, I was in one of those states of fatigue, almost like extreme well-being, when one is lighter than the dark streets round one, the rain, and the rushing wind; the glowing windows of the shops by the tramlines at the bottom of the road seemed like the lights scattered round a waterfront.

  Across the road from Morcom’s new lodgings, the trees smelt mustily in the rain: the window (I hoped to see it in darkness) was a square of tawny light, and Morcom let us in himself.

  ‘Good,’ he said, with a smile of pleasure.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said George, following him into the room, ‘I’ve only come for a short talk.’

  Morcom turned quickly at the tone. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  ‘I should like you to explain,’ said George, ‘something that Eden said to me this afternoon. I don’t expect it’s necessary to tell you that he refuses to take me into the firm. He suggested you might be able to tell me the reason better than he could himself.’

  ‘Lewis knows as much as I do,’ Morcom said.

  ‘Eden mentioned you by name,’ said George.

  ‘He’d no right to throw this on me.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ George said. ‘I’m not interested in Eden’s behaviour. I’ve seen enough of that. I want to know the conversations you’ve had about me.’

  ‘The only time I’ve heard him speak of you at any length,’ said Morcom, ‘was’ – he looked at me – ‘that Sunday. A fortnight ago. I said what you asked me – and tried to find out what he thought of you. I didn’t tell you the result because I thought it would hurt you. If you must have it – he admitted rather reluctantly that you’d got ability, but he didn’t think you’re reliable enough to be in a responsible position and he’s afraid you’d be a danger to the firm.’

  ‘What sort of danger?’

  ‘Roughly that your present way of life would put clients off. It was also pretty clear that it put him off.’

  ‘What does he know of my way of life?’

  ‘A fair amount,’ said Morcom.

  ‘He had the impertinence to mention the Calvert incident. I suppose he knows about the people at the School.’

  ‘He couldn’t very well help it.’

  ‘I don’t see why he should imagine anyone disapproving of that.’ George’s voice was penetrating and subdued, as though he were keeping it low by will alone.

  ‘Simply because he thinks you get the young women together in order to seduce them.’

  ‘That’s the kind of cheap suspicion a man like that would have. I suppose you didn’t tell him the truth? Did you deny it?’

  Morcom flushed. ‘I did what I could.’

  ‘Eden didn’t give me that impression.’

  ‘It’s certainly true,’ I broke in. ‘Arthur was as near being rude as I ever heard him.’

  As I looked at Morcom, we could not forget one remark in another sense.

  ‘Even if that’s true,’ said George, ‘you gave different impressions on other nights.’

  ‘Do you seriously mean,’ Morcom suddenly broke out, ‘that I’ve been blackguarding you in private?’

  ‘Eden said that most people who knew me thought I was good at deceiving myself. Who said that if you didn’t? Do you mean to say that you never dropped those other hints – to Eden about my behaviour?’

  ‘If you want me to pretend that I’ve treated you as an entirely sacred subject in conversation with Eden or anyone else,’ Morcom said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t. It isn’t so easy for an outsider to believe in your divine inspiration, you realise.’

  ‘You mean I’m a megalomaniac?’

  ‘At times, yes.’

  ‘That’s an honest remark at last. It’s a relief.’

  Morcom raised himself in his chair: ‘We oughtn’t to
quarrel. Let’s leave this now.’

  There was a silence; then George said: ‘No, one honest remark isn’t enough. It’s time some more were made. This has been going on too long already.

  ‘You don’t think I’ve been completely taken in, do you?’ George went on. His voice was getting louder now. ‘I’ve credited you with every doubt I could until now. But it wouldn’t be charitable to doubt any more, it would merely be culpable madness. Even when I was giving you the benefit of the doubt, I was all but certain you had been working against me at every single point.’

  ‘This is sheer mania,’ Morcom said.

  ‘Mania? I dare say you call it mania to be able to see a connection between some very simple events. Do you call it mania to remember that you discouraged me from taking any steps about Jack Cotery? – one of the few effective things I’ve managed to do in this town. You wouldn’t believe it when I brought it off. You went on to advise him to go into business against my judgment – that might have been disastrous for me. You don’t deny that you tried to take Olive away. With slightly more success. Though not quite as much as you set out for. You hung round her as soon as you realised she was valuable to me.’

  One side of Morcom’s mouth was drawn in.

  ‘Or that you discouraged Jack Cotery and Eliot from everything I believed and wanted to do? You did it very subtly and carefully. The great George joke, the silly amiable old ass, with his fatuous causes, just preaching nonsense that might have been fresh fifty years ago, and then cuddling one of the girls on the quiet. Fortunately they had too much independence to believe you altogether – but still it left its mark–’

  ‘Of course not–’ I said.

  ‘I can give you plenty of proof of that. Principally from Jack’s behaviour.’ George turned on me, then back to Morcom. ‘And when you’d finished on my friends you tried to stop my career. You encouraged Martineau in his madness, you didn’t stop him when he might have been stopped. You let him go ahead with the little plays, blast them to hell. You made suggestions about them as though they were useful. You let him think it was right to allow the firm to go to Eden, and you carefully kept him away from thinking of giving it over to me. Then you made really certain by this business with Eden. I’ll admit you’ve been thorough. That’s about all I will admit for you. It’s the meanest deliberate attempt to sin against the human decencies that I’ve come across so far.’

  George stopped suddenly: the shout seemed to leave a noise in the ears when his lips were already still.

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ said Morcom. ‘It isn’t any good telling you that quite a lot of things happen in the world without any reference to yourself. It’s possible to talk to someone like Martineau about his life without thinking of you for a single instant. But you’re pathologically incapable of realising that. It’s out of your control–’

  ‘In that case, the sooner we stop pretending to have human intercourse the better. I don’t much like being victimised; I dislike even more being victimised by someone who pretends that I’m not sane.’

  ‘The only thing I should like to know,’ Morcom said, ‘is why you thought I should flatter you – by all these exertions.’

  ‘Because we’ve always stood for different things,’ George cried. ‘And you’ve known it all the time. Because I stand for the hopeful things, and you for their opposite. You’ve never forgiven me for that. I’m doing something to create the world I believe in – you’re sterile and you know it. I believe in human nature. You – despise it because you think all human nature is as twisted as your own. I believe in progress, I believe that human happiness ought to be attained and that we are attaining it. You’re bitter because you couldn’t believe in any of those things. The world I want will come and you know it – as for yours, it will be inhabited by people as perverted as yourself.’

  Morcom sat with his eyes never leaving George’s, his arms limp at his sides.

  ‘Good God above, do I wonder you hate me?’ George shouted on. ‘You’ve got everything that I needed to make me any use. You could have done everything – if only you could bear to see someone else’s happiness. As it is, you can only use your gifts against those who show you what you’ve missed. You try to get your satisfaction by injuring people who make you feel ashamed. Well, I hope you’re satisfied now. Until you find another victim.’

  20: Two Progresses

  THE winter passed. George spent less time with me than formerly; partly because I was working intensively for my final examination in the summer – but also it was now Jack who had become his most confidential friend.

  As soon as Eden’s decision was made, George had thrown himself into the interests of the group. Several young men and women from the School had been added to it; George talked of them all more glowingly than ever. On the few occasions I went out to the farm that winter, I felt the change from the group which George first devoted himself to. George and Jack, I know, formed parties there each weekend.

  George never visited Eden’s house again, after the Sunday night when we walked back in the rain. I scarcely heard him mention Eden or the firm; and at Eden’s the entire episode of Martineau and George was merely the subject of comfortable reflections.

  It was Eden, however, who told me in the early spring that Martineau was making another move, was giving up the agency. He had found some eccentric brotherhood, not attached to any sect, whose members walked over the country preaching and begging their keep. This he was off to join.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Eden, ‘religion is a terrible thing.’

  We heard that Martineau was due to leave early one Saturday morning. I went along to his house that day and outside met George, who said, with a shamefaced smile: ‘I couldn’t very well let him go without saying goodbye.’

  We had to ring the bell. Since the house had been transformed, we did not know where Martineau would be sleeping. The bell sounded, emptily, far away; it brought a desolation. At last his housekeeper came, her face was hostile, for she blamed us for the catastrophe.

  ‘You’ll find him in his old drawing-room,’ she said. ‘And if things had been right you’d never have had cause to look for him at all.’

  He had been sleeping in the drawing-room, in one corner. A rough screen where the sofa used to be; in the bend of the room, between the fireplace and the window, where we used to sit on the more intimate Friday nights, a bed protruded, and there was an alarm clock on the chair beside it. The Ingres had been taken down, the walls were bare, there was a close and musty smell.

  Martineau was standing by the bed, packing a rucksack.

  ‘Hallo,’ he cried, ‘so glad you’ve come to see the last appearance. It’s specially nice that you managed to find time, George.’

  His laugh was wholehearted and full of enjoyment, utterly free from any sort of sad remembrance of the past. He was wearing an old brown shirt and the grey coat and trousers in which I had last seen him; he had no tie, and he had not shaved for days.

  ‘Could I possibly help you to pack that?’ said George.

  ‘I’ve always been better with my hands than with my head,’ said Martineau. ‘But still, George, you have a shot.’

  George studied the articles on the bed. There were a few books, an old flannel suit, a sponge bag and a mackintosh.

  ‘I think the suit obviously goes in first,’ said George, and bent over the bed.

  ‘This is a change from the old days in the firm,’ said Martineau. ‘You used to do the brainwork, and I tried on the quiet to clean up the scripts you’d been selecting as ashtrays.’

  George laughed. He could forget everything except their liking: and so (it surprised me more) could Martineau.

  ‘How is the firm, by the way?’ asked Martineau.

  ‘As tolerable as one can reasonably expect,’ said George.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Mar
tineau indifferently, and went off to talk gaily of his own plans. He was going to walk fifteen miles today, he said, down the road towards London, to meet the others coming from the east.

  ‘Will there be any chance of seeing you here? On your travels?’ said George.

  ‘Some time,’ Martineau smiled. ‘You’ll see me when you don’t expect me. I shall pass through some time.’

  He went to the door, called ‘Eliz-a-beth,’ as he used to when he wanted more coffee on a Friday night. He ran down the stairs and his voice came to us lilting and cheerful: we heard her sobbing. He returned with a buttonhole in his shirt. When we had left the garden and turned the corner, out of sight of the house, he smiled at us and tossed the buttonhole away.

  Just before we said goodbye, George hesitated. ‘There’s one thing I should like to say, Mr Martineau. I don’t know what arrangements you are making with your connections here. As you realise, they’re not people I should personally choose to rely on in case of difficulties. And you’re taking a line that may conceivably get you into difficulties. So I thought I ought to say that if ever you need money or anything of the sort – I might be a more suitable person to turn to. Anyway, I should like you to keep that in mind.’

  ‘I appreciate that, George.’ Martineau smiled. ‘I really appreciate that.’

  He shook our hands. We watched him cross over the road, his knapsack lurching at each stride. Up the road, where the houses rested in the misty sunshine, he went on, dark between the trees, until the long curve took him out of sight.

  ‘Well,’ said George.

  We walked the other way, towards the town. I asked if I should meet him out of the office at midday, as I often did on Saturdays.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said George. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought of going straight over to the farm. I don’t suppose you can allow yourself the time off, can you? But Jack is taking over a crowd by the one o’clock bus. I want to work in a full weekend.’