by C. P. Snow
18 JANUARY 1929
I am now able to feel that the difficulty is resolved. But there is one problem which I cannot settle. Why ever should Martineau have made a false statement in the first place? Can it have been deliberate? It seems unthinkable. I remember his curious manoeuvres about Morcom’s flat just before he left the firm. But I could not believe that was done from selfish motives; still more I cannot believe anything so ridiculous of him now. After all, he did not touch a penny of the price we paid. He went straight off to his incredible settlement. Since then he has scarcely had a shilling in his pocket.
I suppose he was simply losing his grip on the world, and it is useless to speculate as though he were a rational being.
As soon as I read George’s words, I did not doubt that his account of Martineau’s statement was true. I wondered what Martineau had really meant; whatever underlay it all, his evidence might be essential now. On the whole, though, I was more distressed than before I knew as much.
Two things struck me most. George had certainly suspected the statement while they were still borrowing money; he had managed to shelve his misgivings for a time. Then at last he put his ‘mind at rest’. I was not altogether surprised by his self-explanation; but it became full of meaning when we compared it to his silence over the farm.
He believed himself caught accidentally in a fog of misrepresentation over the agency – what about the other business? I could not help but imagine – was it something he could not reconcile himself to? Something he tried to dismiss from his thoughts?
And I knew what George’s feeling for Jack had now become. The mention of the circulation, and Jack’s laughter; George afraid, when struggling with his doubt, to speak to Jack again – those hints endowed some of George’s words with an ironic, an almost intolerable pathos: ‘It devolves on me to consider what is right for the three of us to do.’
31: Confidential Talk in Eden’s Drawing-Room
I read the diary all evening. At dinner Eden and I were alone, and he was kindly and cordial. We went into the drawing-room afterwards; he built up the fire as high as it had been the night of Morcom’s slip; he pressed me to a glass of brandy.
Here I have to enter into a conversation which I reported, more subjectively, in a part of my own story.
‘How do you feel about yesterday?’ he said at length.
‘It looks none too good,’ I said.
‘I completely agree,’ he said deliberately, with a friendly smile to mark my judgment and to recognise bad news. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been talking to Hotchkinson about it during the afternoon. We both consider we shall be lucky if we can save those young nuisances from what, between ourselves, I’m beginning to think they deserve. But I don’t like to think of their getting it through the lack of any possible effort on our part. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course,’ I said. He was sitting back comfortably now, his voice smooth and friendly, as though I was a client he liked, but to whom he had to break bad news. He was sorry, and yet buoyed up by the subdued pleasure of his own activity.
‘Well then, that’s what Hotchkinson and I have been considering. And we wondered whether you ought to have a little help. You’re not to misunderstand us, young man. I’d as soon trust a case to you as anyone of your age, and Hotchkinson believes in you as well. Of course, you were a trifle over-optimistic imagining you might get a dismissal in the police court, but we all make our mistakes, you know. This is going to be a very tricky case, though. It’s not going to be just working out the legal defence. If it was only doing that in front of a judge, I’d take the responsibility of leaving you by yourself, if they were my own son and daughter. But this looks like being one of those cases where the legal side isn’t so important–’ he chuckled – ‘and it’ll be a matter of making the best of a bad job with the jury. That’s the snag.’
‘Almost all my work’s been in front of juries.’
‘Of course it has. You’ll have plenty more. But you know, as we all know, that they’re very funny things. And in this case I should say from my experience of them that they’ll be prejudiced against your people – simply because they’re of the younger generation and one or two stories will slip out that they’ve gone the pace at times–’
‘That’s obviously true.’
‘Well, I put it to Hotchkinson that they’d be even more prejudiced, if their counsel was the same kind of age and a brilliant young man. They’d resent all the brilliance right from the start, Eliot. You’d only have to make a clever suggestion, and they’d distrust you. They’d be jibbing from all the good qualities of your generation – as well as the bad, but they’d find the bad all right. The racketiness that’s been the curse of these days – they’d find that and they’d count it against them in spite of anything you said. Anything you could say would only make it worse.’
‘What do you suggest?’ I said.
‘I want you to stay in the case. You know it better than anyone already, and we can’t do without you. But I believe, taking everything into consideration, you ought to have someone to lead you.’
‘Who?’
‘I was thinking of your old chief – Getliffe.’
‘It’s sensible to get someone,’ I broke out, ‘but Getliffe – seriously, he’s a bad lawyer.’
‘No one’s a hero to his pupils, you know,’ said Eden.
I persisted: ‘I dare say I’m unfair. But this is important. There are others who’d do it admirably.’ I gave some names of senior counsel.
‘They’re clever fellows,’ said Eden, smiling as when we argued about George. ‘But I don’t see any reason to go beyond Getliffe. He’s always done well with by cases.’
When I was alone, I was surprised that my disappointment should be so sharp. There was little of my own at stake, a brief in a minor case – for which, of course, I had already refused to be paid. Yet, when it was tested through Eden’s decision, I knew – there is no denying the edge of one’s unhappiness – that I was more wounded by the petty rebuff than by the danger to my friends.
I was ashamed that it should be so. But for some hours I could think of little else. Despite the anxieties of the case, the chances of Jack running, their immediate fate: despite being present at a time when George needed all the strength of a friend. Often, in the last days, I had lain awake, thinking of what would happen to him. But tonight I was preoccupied with my own vanity.
I went to London next morning and saw Getliffe. He said, alert, bright-eyed and glib after skimming through the documents: ‘You worked with Eden once, of course.’
‘I know him well,’ I said.
‘You’ve seen this case he’s sent us?’
‘I’ve watched it through the police court,’ I answered.
‘Well, L S,’ his voice rose, ‘it’ll be good fun working together again. It’s been too long since we had a duet, I’m looking forward to this.’
The preparation of the case gave me a chance to be more thorough than if I had been left alone. For there was the need to sit with Getliffe, to bully him, to ignore his complaints that he would get it up in time, to make him aggrieved and patronising. At any cost, he must not go into court in the way I had seen him so often, flustered, with no more than a skipped reading, a half-memory behind him, relying in a badgered and uncomfortable way on his inventive wits, completely determined to work thoroughly in his next case, fidgeting and yet getting sympathy with the court – somehow, despite the mistakes, harassment, carelessness, sweating forehead and nervous eyes, keeping his spirits and miraculously coming through.
I kept the case before him. He was harder-working than most, but he could not bear any kind of continuity. An afternoon’s work after his own pattern meant going restlessly through several briefs, picking up a recognition-symbol here and there, so that, when a solicitor came in and mentioned a name, Getliffe’s eyes would be bright and in
telligent – ‘You mean the man who–’
He left me to collect the witnesses. One of my tasks was to trace Martineau; it took a good deal of time. At last I found a workhouse master in the North Riding, who guffawed as I began to inquire over the telephone.
‘You mean Old Jesus,’ he said. ‘He’s often been in here.’ He added: ‘He doesn’t seem mad. But he must be right off his head.’
He was able to tell me where ‘that crowd’ had settled now.
I returned to the town at the weekend. I had not been back an hour before Roy rang up to say that Jack seemed to have disappeared. For a day or two he had been talking of a ‘temporary expedition’ to Birmingham, to survey the ‘prospects’ for a new business as soon as the trial was over. Today no one could find him.
A few minutes after the call, Roy brought Olive and Rachel to Eden’s house. For the whole afternoon Eden left us to ourselves.
Rachel was desperately worried. Roy also believed that Jack had flown. Of us all, Olive alone was unshaken.
‘If you knew him better,’ she said, ‘you’d know that he fooled himself with his excuses – as well as you. He’s really planning a new business. And he also thinks it’s a good dodge for getting a few miles away.’
‘He needn’t stop there,’ said Roy.
‘I don’t believe he’s gone near Birmingham,’ said Rachel.
‘I think you’ll find he has,’ said Olive.
‘I know I’m thinking of George all the time,’ cried Rachel. ‘We’ve got to sit by and watch Jack ruin him. And Olive, it’s wretched to see you–’
‘Go on.’
‘I must speak now. I know it’s hopeless,’ Rachel went on. ‘But if only you could see Jack for a minute just as we do–’
‘You think he’s a scoundrel. That he doesn’t care a rap for me. And that he’ll marry me because he can’t get money some other way. Is that what you mean?’ Before Rachel replied Olive added: ‘Some of it’s quite true.’
‘You don’t know what a relief it would be – to get you free of him,’ Rachel said. ‘Is there any chance? When this is over?’
‘None,’ said Olive. After a moment, she said: ‘I don’t care what you think of how much he’s attached to me. But I’ll tell you this. He knows he can live on my money. He may be forced to marry me in the end. But I shall be happier about the arrangement than he will. There’ll be times when he’s bound to think that I’m dragging him down. He’s got more illusions than I have. You’ve got to persuade yourselves of that.’
Rachel tried to argue with her. She did not resent the obvious pretences and attempts to console her. She said, with a genuine smile: ‘It’s no use talking. You’ll never believe a word I say.’
Rachel once more begged her to trace Jack – ‘we can’t let George be thrown away,’ she cried.
Then the maid announced another visitor for me and Morcom came in. First he caught sight of Roy, and said: ‘I can’t find any news.’
At that moment, he saw Olive.
‘I’m sorry. They didn’t tell me–’
‘Come and sit by the fire,’ she said.
He sat down and spread out his hands. His face looked ill with care. We all knew that this was the first time they had met for months.
In her presence he would not say what he had come for. Roy talked more easily for a few minutes than anyone there could manage: then he took Rachel away.
Olive said to Morcom: ‘You’re not looking well, Arthur. You must take care of yourself.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Promise me you’ll look after yourself.’
‘If I can,’ said Morcom. Their manner to each other was still sometimes tender. Some casual remark made them smile together, and their faces, in that moment, rested in peace.
Soon Olive could not control her restlessness. She crossed to the window, and looked out into the dark; she returned to her chair again, and then got up to go. Her eyes caught the brief lying on the writing desk. She pointed to the words on the first page – Rex v. Passant and Ors.
‘Is that us?’ She was laughing without any pretence. ‘I’ve never seen anything that looked – so far away.’
She stood still for a moment, and said goodbye. She put her hand on the back of Morcom’s chair: ‘Goodbye,’ she said again.
As soon as the door closed, Morcom said: ‘I came to say – you must force George to escape.’
‘You think Jack has really gone?’
‘I don’t know. I advised him to.’
I broke out in angry recriminations, though as he spoke his face was torn with pain. I reminded him of my warning the night of the first inquiries: and how, after the police court, we agreed that I could not tell George to go.
‘It’s criminal to take the responsibility of persuading Jack – unless George was ready too,’ I said.
‘I had to speak,’ said Morcom.
‘You could not face telling me first.’
‘Don’t you understand that I was bound to speak to Jack?’ Morcom said. ‘You said I ought to have taken care of them before it happened. Do you think this was any more bearable? It means they will marry. They will stay abroad for years. They will be left with nothing but their own resources. That’s what she longs for, isn’t it? I’ve had to try to help it on.’
I looked at him.
‘Will you tell George to go now?’ he said at last.
‘I shall have to try,’ I said.
32: Visit to George
I took a taxi to George’s lodgings. He was alone, sitting in the same chair, the same position, as in the evening after the police court. He must have heard the taxi drive up outside, but he did not inquire why I had hurried.
He tried to stir himself for my benefit, however. Though his voice was flat, he asked after Sheila with his old friendly diffident politeness; he talked a little of a case that I had just finished in London.
Then I said: ‘What do you think of our case, George?’
‘It’s gone more or less as I expected.’
‘Has it?’
George nodded without any protest.
I hesitated.
‘Look, George,’ I said. ‘I’m going to offend you. You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t care what has actually happened in this business. You know that perfectly well. I can’t imagine any action you could do which would make the slightest difference to me. It wouldn’t either make me think worse of you or better – it works both ways. Well, I don’t know what’s happened, you may be technically guilty or you may not, I don’t know and, apart from curiosity, I don’t care. You’ve told me you’re not.’ I met his eyes. ‘I know you tell the literal truth more than most of us – but even so, I can imagine all sorts of reasons why you should lie here.’
He gave a resentful, awkward laugh.
‘So I’ve got nothing to do with what really happened,’ I said. ‘The essential thing is what other people will think happened. That’s all. I’m just talking as a lawyer about the probabilities in this case. You know them, you’re a better lawyer than I am, of course, whenever you care. What should you say the probabilities are?’
‘So far, they’re not much in our favour.’
‘If you came to me as a client,’ I said, ‘I shouldn’t be as optimistic as that.’
I went on: ‘Anyway, supposing you’re right, supposing the chances were even or a bit better – ought you to risk it? If it comes down the wrong side–’
‘We get a few months. And the consequences–’
‘Is the risk worth taking?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Jump your bail. I’ve spoken to the others who put up money. We all want you to please yourself.’
‘What should I do?’
‘You could be in South America in a fo
rtnight. Nothing will touch you there, in this sort of case.’
There was a silence.
‘I don’t see how I’m going to live.’
‘We can provide a bit. It won’t be much, God knows – but it’d help you in a place where living’s cheap. And in time it would be possible to make a little money.’
‘It would be difficult.’
‘Not impossible. You could get qualified there – if there’s nothing else.’
‘I should never have any security.’
‘Think of the alternative.’
‘No,’ George burst out, in a loud, harsh, emphatic tone. ‘I’m afraid it’s completely impracticable. I appreciate the offer, of course.’ (That ‘of course’ of George’s which, as so often, was loaded with resentment.)
‘But it’s ludicrous to consider it. Apart from the practical obstacles – I should have to live in discomfort all my life, it isn’t pleasant to condemn oneself to squalid exile.’
He added: ‘And there’s the question of the others.’
‘I was coming to that.’
‘Well?’
‘Olive could go with a clear conscience. Her uncle’s wealthy, she has enough to live on.’
He did not reply.
‘I’ll promise to readjust things with the others so that you won’t have any responsibility,’ I said. ‘You come first. It’s more serious for you. You stand to lose most. For me – I needn’t tell you – you count very much the most.’
There was a silence before George replied: ‘I appreciate the offer. But I can’t take it.’
‘There is one other thing,’ I said.
‘What?’ His voice had returned to the lifeless tone with which he welcomed me.
‘Jack may have gone already.’
‘Are you inventing that to get rid of me?’
‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ I said. ‘But you’ve seen some indications, surely?’
‘I didn’t take them seriously.’