by C. P. Snow
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and took my arm.
In snatches she began to talk. She was a little released because I had tried to ravish her, She could not talk consecutively – so much of her life was locked within her; especially she could not bring out the secret dread and daydream in which she was obsessed by physical love. Yet, after her horror by the fireside, she was impelled to speak, flash out some fragment from her past, in the trust that I would understand. How she had, more ignorant than most girls, wondered about the act of love. How she dreaded it. There was nothing startling in what she said. But, for her, it was a secret she could only let out in a flash of words, then silence, then another flash. For what to another woman would have been matter-of-fact, for her was becoming an obsession, so that often, in her solitary thoughts, she believed that she was incapable of taking a man’s love.
Trafalgar Square was almost empty to the bitter night, as she and I walked across arm in arm.
I did not know enough of the region where flesh and spirit touch. I did not know enough of the aberrations of the flesh, nor how, the more so because they are ridiculous except to the sufferer, they can corrode a life. If I had been older, I could perhaps have soothed her just a little. If I had been older and not loved her; for all my thoughts of love, all my sensual hopes and images of desire, belonged to her alone. My libido could find no other home; I had got myself seduced by a young married woman, but it had not deflected my imagination an inch from the girl walking at my side, had not diluted by a drop that total of desire, erotic and amorous, playful and passionate, which she alone invoked. Hers was the only body I wanted beside me at night. And so I was the wrong man to listen to her. If I had been twice my age, and not loved her, I could have told her of other lives like her own; I should have been both coarser and tenderer and I should have told her that, at worst, it is wonderful how people can come to terms and make friends of the flesh. But I was not yet twenty-three, I loved her to madness, I was defeated and hungry with longing.
So she walked, silent again, down Whitehall and I limped beside her. Yet it seemed that she was soothed. It was strange after that night, but she held my hand. Somehow we were together, and she did not want to part. We stood on Westminster Bridge, gazing at the black water; it was black and oily, except at the banks, where slivers of ice split and danced in the light.
‘Too cold to jump,’ she said. She was laughing. Big Ben struck twelve.
‘How’s the foot?’ she said. ‘Strong enough to walk home?’
I could scarcely put it to the ground, but I would have walked with her all night. She shook her head. ‘No. I’m going to buy us a taxi.’
She came back to my room, where the fire was nearly out. She built it up again, and made tea. I lay on the sofa, and she sat on the hearthrug, just as we had done two hours before, and between us there was a kind of peace.
36: A Stroke of Luck
In the early summer of 1929 I had my first great stroke of luck. Charles March intervened on my behalf. He was a proud man; for himself he could not have done what he did for me. No man was more sensitive to affronts, but for me he risked them. He was importunate with some of his connexions. I was invited to a garden party and scrutinized by men anxious to oblige Sir Philip March’s nephew. I was asked to dinner, and met Henriques, one of the most prosperous of Jewish solicitors. Charles sat by as impresario, anxious to show me at my best. As it happened, I was less constrained than he. The Harts and Henriques were shrewd, guarded, professional men, but I was soon at my ease, as I had been with Eden. I had everything in my favour; they wished to please Charles, and I had only to pass muster.
In June the first case arrived. It lay on my table, in the shadow. Outside the window the gardens were brilliant in the sunlight, and a whirr came from a lawnmower cutting grass down below. I was so joyful that for a second I left the papers there, in the shadow. Then it all seemed a matter of everyday, something to act upon, no longer a novelty. The brief came from Henriques, bore the figures 20 + 1. The case was a libel action brought by a man called Chapman. It looked at a first reading straightforward and easy to win.
But there was little time to prepare. It was down for hearing in three days’ time. Percy explained that the man to whom the case had first gone was taken suddenly ill; and Henriques had remembered me. It got him out of a difficulty, and did me a good turn, and after all I was certain to have three days completely free.
I was sent a few notes from the barrister who had thrown up the brief, and worked night and day. My four or five hours’ sleep was broken, as I woke up with a question on my mind. I switched on the light, read through a page, made a jotting, just as I used to when preparing for an examination. I was strung-up, light-headed as well as lucid, and excessively cheerful.
Henriques behaved with a consideration that he did not parade, though it came from a middle-aged and extremely rich solicitor to a young and penniless member of the Bar. He called for a conference in person, instead of sending one of his staff; he acted as though this were a weighty brief being studied by the most eminent of silks. Getliffe was so much impressed by Henriques’ attention that he found it necessary to take a hand himself, and with overflowing cordiality pressed me to use his room for the conference.
Henriques made it plain that we were expected to win. Unless I were hopelessly incompetent, I knew that we must. The knowledge made me more nervous: when I got on my feet in court, the judge’s face was a blur, so were the jurors’; I was uncertain of my voice. But, as though a record was playing, my arguments came out. Soon the judge’s face came clear through the haze, bland, cleft-chinned. I saw a juror, freckled, attentive, frowning. I made a faint joke. I was beginning to enjoy myself.
Our witnesses did all I wanted of them. I had one main fact to prove: that the defendant knew Chapman well, not merely as an acquaintance. As I finished with our last witness, I thought, though still anxious, still touching wood, that our central point was unshakable. The defence’s only hope was to smear it over and suggest a coincidence. Actually my opponent tried that tack, but so tangled himself that he never made it clear. He seemed to have given up hope before the case began, and his speech was muddled and ill-arranged. He was a man of Allen’s standing, with more force and a larger practice, but nothing like so clever. He only called three witnesses, and by the time two had been heard I was aglow. It was as good as over.
Their last witness came to the box. All I had to do was to make him admit that he and Chapman and the defendant had often met together. It was obviously so he could not deny it; it left our main point unassailable, and the case was clear. But I made a silly mistake. I could not let well alone; I thought the witness was malicious and had another interest in attacking Chapman. I began asking him about it. I was right in my human judgement, but it was bad tactics in law. First, it was an unnecessary complication: second, as the witness answered, his malice emerged – but so also did his view that Chapman was lying and I was sweating beneath my wig. I perceived what he was longing for the chance to say. I pulled up sharp. It was better to leave that line untidy, and bolt to the safe one; sweating, flustered, discomfited, I found my tongue was not forsaking me, was inventing a bridge that took me smoothly back. It happened slickly. I was cool enough to wonder how many people had noticed the break.
With the jury out, I sat back, uneasy. I went over the case: surely it stood, surely to anyone it must have appeared sound? Foolishly I had done it harm, but surely it had affected nothing?
The jury were very quick. Before I heard the verdict, I knew all was well. I did not want to shout aloud: I just wanted to sink down in relief.
‘Very nice,’ said Henriques, who had, with his usual courtesy, made another personal appearance. ‘My best thanks. If I may say so, you had it in hand all the way. I apologize again for giving you such short notice. Next time we shan’t hurry you so much.’
Charles took my hand, and, as Henriques left, began to speak.
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘But
whatever possessed you to draw that absurd red herring?’
Just then, I should have liked to be spared Charles’ tongue. No one expressed the unflattering truth more pointedly. I thought that I had recovered well, I should have liked some praise.
‘I’m very glad,’ said Charles. ‘But you realize that it might have been a serious mistake? You missed the point completely, don’t you agree?’
On the other hand, Getliffe assumed responsibility for my success. He came into my room in Chambers (I still had my table in Allen’s room) and spoke at large as though he had done it himself. He decided to organize a celebration. While I was writing to Sheila, Getliffe booked a table at the Savoy for dinner and telephoned round to make the party. They were gathered in Getliffe’s haphazard manner – some were friends of mine, some I scarcely knew, some, like Salisbury, were acquaintances none too well pleased that at last I should begin to compete. That did not worry Getliffe. Incidentally, though the members of the party were invited haphazard, there was nothing haphazard about the arrangements for payment: Getliffe made sure that each of the guests came ready to pay for himself.
Charles did not come. He was already booked for a dinner party, but Getliffe expressed strong disapproval. ‘He ought to have put anything else off on a night like this! Still,’ said Getliffe, ‘it’s his loss, not ours. We’re going to have a good time!’ Then Getliffe added, in his most heartfelt tone: ‘And while we’re talking, L S, I’ve always thought young March might have done a bit more for you. He might have pulled a rope or two to get you started. Instead of leaving everything to your own devices – plus, of course, the bits and pieces I’ve been able to do for you myself.’
I wondered if I had heard aright. It was colossal, Yet, as he spoke, Getliffe was believing every word. That was one of his gifts.
At the party I was seated next to a good-looking girl. Tired, attracted to her, half-drunk, triumphant, I spread myself in boasting, as I had not boasted since my teens.
‘I feel extremely jubilant,’ I said.
‘You look it,’ she replied.
‘I’ve often wished that I’d chosen a different line,’ I went on. ‘I mean, something where one got started quicker. But this is going to be worth waiting for when it comes.’
Provocatively she talked about friends at the Bar.
‘I could have done other things,’ I went on bragging. ‘I’d have backed myself to come off in several different jobs!’
The irony of the party made me laugh aloud. My first victory – and here I was being drunk to by Getliffe, his smile merry, wily, and open. My first victory – not an intimate friend there, but a good many rivals instead. My first victory – instead of having Sheila in my arms, I was boasting wildly to this cool and pretty girl. Yet I had won, and I laughed aloud.
Within three days I received something more than congratulations. Percy spoke to me one morning in the hall, in his usual manner, authoritative under the servility ‘I should like a word with you, Mr Eliot.’
I went into his cubby hole.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.
As I thanked him, Percy’s smile was firm but gratified, the smile of power, the smile of a conferrer of benefits.
‘Well, sir,’ said Percy, ‘you’ve given me a bit to go on now. I can tell them that you won the Chapman case for Henriques. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing!
In fact, Percy had decided that it was safe to give me a minor recommendation. He had been watching me for two years, with interest, never letting his sympathy – though whether he had sympathy I was not sure – interfere with his judgement. He had eked out the driblets, the guineas and the two guineas, to keep me from despair, but he would go no further. Now someone else had taken the risk, Percy was ready to speak in my favour just as much as the facts justified.
This case came from solicitors who had no contact at all with my Jewish friends. It was a case which happened to be rather like Charles’ first. It would bring me thirty guineas.
Between July 1928 and July 1929, I had earned eighty-eight pounds. But of this sum, fifty-two pounds ten had arrived since June, on my first two cases. It was more promising than it looked. I dared not tell myself so, but the hope was there. I hoped I was coming through.
37: Value In Others’ Eyes
I began to see how luck attracts luck. Before the long vacation, I received my biggest case so far, from one of Charles March’s connexions, and, at the same time heard that another was coming from Henriques. In high spirits, I felt the trend ought to be encouraged, and so I set to work playing on Getliffe’s better nature. I was determined not to let him wriggle out of every promise; now the stream was running with me, I intended to make Getliffe help. We had several most moving and heartfelt conversations. I told him that I could not afford a holiday, unless I was certain of earning three hundred pounds next year.
Getliffe said: ‘You know, L S, it’s an uncertain life for all of us. How much do you think I’m certain of myself? Only a few hundred. That’s the meal ticket, you understand. I manage to rake in a bit more by way of extras. But as a steady income I can’t count on as much as the gentleman who reads my income tax return.’ He was grave with emotion at this thought. ‘Then I think of taking silk!’ he said. ‘It’d be just throwing the steady bread and butter out of the window. I expect I shall some day. One never counts one’s blessings. And I can tell you this,’ he added, ‘if and when I do take silk, there’ll be plenty of confetti coming into the Chambers for chaps like you.’
‘I’d like a bit more now,’ I said.
‘So should we all, L S,’ said Getliffe reprovingly.
But I was becoming more practised with him.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m getting a few briefs now. Charles March has done more than his share. So has Henriques. I think you should do yours now. You’ve promised to find me some work. I think this would be a good time.’
Getliffe looked at me with a sudden, earnest smile.
‘I’m very glad you’ve spoken like that, L S. I believe you’ve spoken like a friend. People sometimes tell me I’m selfish. I get worried. You see, I’m not conscious of it. I should hate to think of myself like that. I want my friends to pull me up if ever they think I’m doing wrong.’
Next day, though, he might think better of it. There was a very strong rumour – I never knew whether it was true – that whenever he took a holiday he tried to divert any cases which might be on the way. He did not divert them to bright young men, but to a middle-aged and indifferently competent figure who came so seldom into Chambers that I scarcely knew him. That rumour might be true, I thought: Getliffe did not welcome the sound of youth knocking at the door. Still, I should make him keep his promise.
As I told Getliffe, I could not afford a holiday, but I spent a week that summer with my old friends in the town. I had been in close touch with them since I came to London, George Passant visited me regularly once a quarter, but I had only returned myself for odd days, when Eden sent me a two-guinea brief on the Midland Circuit. To many people it seemed strange, and they thought me heartless.
That was not accurate. I was an odd fish, but my affections were strong; my friendship with George, like all my others, would only end with death. When I stayed in London and avoided the town, it was for a complex of reasons – partly I had to think of the railway fare, partly I was shy of dogging Sheila’s tracks, partly I had an instinct to hide until I could come back successful. But the strongest reason was also the simplest: George and the group did not particularly want me. They loved me, they were proud of me, they rejoiced in any victory I won – but I had gone from their intense intimate life, I was no longer in the secrets of the circle, and it was an embarrassment, almost an intrusion, when I returned. So, as the train drew into the station on an August evening, I was unreasonably depressed. From the carriage window I had seen the houses gleam under the clear night sky; the sulphurous smell of the station, confined within the red brick walls, was as it us
ed to be, when I returned home from dining at the Inn; my heart sank. George greeted me like a conquering hero, and so did the group. In my mood that night, it made me worse to have others overconfident about my future. I explained sharply that I had made an exceptional start for an unknown young man, but that was all. I had been lucky in my friends, I had the advantage in solicitors’ eyes of looking older than I was – but the testing time was the next two years. It was too early to cheer. George would not listen to my disclaimers. Robustly, obtusely, he shouted them away. He was not going to be deprived of his drinking party. They all drank cheerfully; they were drinking harder than ever, now that they were a little less impoverished; they would rather have been at the farm, without a revenant from earlier days, but nevertheless they were happy to get drunk. But it was sadly that I got drunk that night.
Afterwards, George and I walked by ourselves to his lodgings. I asked about some of our old companions: then I felt the barrier come between us. George was content and comfortable in my presence so long as I left the group alone. I asked about Jack, who had not met me that evening.
‘Doing splendidly, of course,’ said George, and hurried to another subject.
But it was George who volunteered information on one old friend. Marion was engaged to be married. George did not know the man, or the story, and had scarcely seen her, but he had heard that she was overwhelmingly happy.
I should have wished to be happy for her. But I was not. In the pang with which I heard the news, I learned how infinitely voracious one is. Any love that comes one’s way – it is bitter to let go. I had not seen Marion for eighteen months, all my love was given to another. Yet it was painful to lose her. It was the final weight on that sad homecoming.
But I was soon cheered up by a ridiculous lunch at the Knights’. Sheila and I had gone through no storms that summer; she had been remotely affectionate, and she had not threatened me with the name of any other man. And she was pleased at my success. In front of her parents she teased me about the income I should soon be earning, about the money and honours on which I had my eye. It seemed to her extremely funny.