Time of Hope

by C. P. Snow

  It did not seem, however, in the least funny to her father and mother. It seemed to them a very serious subject. And at that lunch I found myself being regarded as a distinctly more estimable character.

  They were beginning to be worried about Sheila. Mrs Knight was a woman devoid of intuition, and she could not begin to guess what was wrong. All Mrs Knight observed were the rough-and-ready facts of the marriage market. Sheila was already twenty-four and, like me, often passed for thirty. For all her flirtations, she had given no sign of getting married. Lately she had brought no one home, except me for this lunch. To Mrs Knight, those were ominous facts. Whereas her husband had been uneasy about Sheila’s happiness since her adolescence, and had suppressed his uneasiness simply because in his selfish and self-indulgent fashion he did not choose to be disturbed.

  Thus they were each prepared, if not to welcome me, at least to modify their discouragement. Mr Knight went further. He took me into the rose garden, lit a cigar, and, as we both sat in deckchairs, talked about the careers of famous counsel. It was all done at two removes from me, with Mr Knight occasionally giving me a sideways glance from under his eyelids. He showed remarkable knowledge, and an almost Getliffian enthusiasm, about the pricing of briefs. I had never met a man with more grasp of the financial details of another profession. Without ever asking a straightforward question he was guessing the probable curve of my own income. He was interested in its distribution – what proportion would one earn in High Court work, in London outside the High Court, on the Midland Circuit? Mr Knight was moving surreptitiously to his point.

  ‘I suppose you will be appearing now and then on circuit?’

  ‘If I get some work.’

  ‘Ah. It will come. It will come. I take it’, said Mr Knight, looking in the opposite direction and thoughtfully studying a rose, ‘that you might conceivably appear some time at the local assizes?’

  I agreed that it was possible.

  ‘If that should happen,’ said Mr Knight casually, ‘and if ever you want a quiet place to run over your documents, it would give no trouble to slip you into this house.’

  I supposed that was his point. I hoped it was. But I was left half-mystified, for Mr Knight glanced at me under his eyelids, and went on: ‘You won’t be disturbed. You won’t be. My wife and daughter might be staying with their relations. I shan’t disturb you. I’m always tired. I sleep night and day.’

  Whatever did he mean by Sheila and her mother staying with relations, I thought, as we joined them. Was he just taking away with one hand what he gave with the other? Or was there any meaning at all?

  I was very happy. Sheila was both lively and docile, and walked along the lanes with me before I left. It was my only taste of respectable courtship.

  The Michaelmas Term of 1929 was even more prosperous than I hoped. I lost the case Percy had brought me, but I made them struggle for the verdict, and the damages were low. Percy went so far as to admit that the damages were lower than he expected, and that we could not have done much better in this kind of breach of contract. Henriques’ second case was, like the first, straightforward, and I won it. I earned most money, however, from the case in which I did nothing but paperwork: this was the case which had come from connexions of Charles March just before the vacation. It took some time to settle, and in the end we brought in a KC as a threat. The engineering firm of Howard and Hazlehurst were being sued by one of their agents for commission to which he might be entitled in law though not in common sense. The case never reached the courts, for we made a compromise: the KC’s brief was marked at one hundred and fifty guineas, and according to custom I was paid two-thirds that fee.

  After those events, and before the end of term, at last I scored a point in my long struggle of attrition with Getliffe. I kept reminding him of his promise to unload some of his briefs; I kept telling him, firmly, affectionately, reproachfully, in all the tones I could command, that I still had not made a pound through his help. As a rule, I disliked being pertinacious, but with Getliffe it was fun. The struggle swayed to and fro. He promised again; then he was too busy to consider any of his briefs; then he thought, almost tearfully, of his clients; then he offered to pay me a very small fee to devil a very large case. At last, on a December afternoon, his face suddenly became beatific. ‘Old H-J (a solicitor named Hutton-Jones) is coming in soon! That means work for Herbert. Well, L S, I’m going to do something for you. I’m going to say to H-J that there’s a man in these Chambers who’ll do that job as well as I should. L S, I can’t tell you how glad I am to do something for you. You deserve it, L S, you deserve it.’

  He looked me firmly in the eyes and warmly clasped my hand.

  It happened. A ten-guinea brief in the West London County Court came to me from Hurton-Jones: and it had, unquestionably, been offered to Getliffe. Later on, I became friendly with Hutton-Jones, and his recollection was that the conversation with Getliffe went something like this: ‘H-J, do you really want me to do this? Don’t get me wrong. Don’t think I’m too high-hat to take the county court stuff. It’s all grist that comes to the mill, and you know as well as I do, H-J, that I’m a poor man. But I have got a young chap here – well, I don’t say he could do this job, but he might scrape through. Mind you, I like Eliot. Of course, he hasn’t proved himself. I don’t say that he’s ripe for this job–’

  Hutton-Jones knew something of Getliffe, and diverted the brief to me. I argued for a day in court, and then we reached a settlement. I had saved our clients a fair sum of money. Getliffe congratulated me, as man to man.

  It was a long time before another of his cases found its way to me, but now, by the spring of 1930, I was well under way. Percy judged that he could back me a little farther; Henriques and the Harts were speaking approvingly of me in March circles; Hurton-Jones was trying me on some criminal work, legally dull but shot through with human interest. I was becoming busy. I even knew what it was, as summer approached, to have to refuse invitations to dinner because I was occupied with my briefs.

  Just about that time a letter came from Marion, out of the blue. I had written to congratulate her on her engagement, and I had heard that she was married. Now she said that she would much like to visit me. I had a fleeting notion, flattering to my vanity, that she might be in distress and had turned to me for help. But the first sight of her, as she entered my sitting-room, was enough to sweep that daydream right away. She looked sleek, her eyes were shining, she had become much prettier, and she was expensively dressed: though, just as I remembered, she had managed to leave a patch of white powder or scurf on the shoulder of her jacket.

  ‘Not that you can talk,’ she grumbled, as I dusted it off.

  ‘I needn’t ask whether you’re happy,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think you really need,’ she said.

  She was all set to tell me her story. Before we went out to dinner she had to describe exactly how it all happened. She had met Eric at a drama festival and had fallen romantically in love with him, body and soul, she said. And he with her. They fell passionately in love, and decided to get married. According to her account, he was modest, shy, very active physically. It was only after they were engaged that she discovered that he was also extremely rich.

  ‘That’s the best example of feminine realism I’ve ever heard,’ I said.

  Marion threw a book at me.

  They were living in a country house in Suffolk. It was all perfect, she said. She was already with child.

  ‘What’s the use of waiting?’ said Marion briskly.

  ‘I must say, I envy you.’

  She smiled. ‘You ought to get married yourself, my boy.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said.

  She asked suddenly: ‘Are you going to marry that woman?’

  I was slow to answer. At last I said ‘I hope so.’

  Marion sighed.

  ‘It will be a tragedy,’ she said. ‘You must realize that. You’re much too sensible not to see what it would be like. She’ll ruin you
. Believe me; Lewis, this isn’t sour grapes now.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I hate her,’ Marion burst out. ‘If I could poison her and get away with it, I’d do it like a shot.’

  ‘You don’t know all of her,’ I said.

  ‘I know the effect she’s had on you. No, I don’t want you for myself, my dear. I shall love Eric for ever. But there’s a corner in my heart for you.’ She looked at me, half-maternally. ‘Eric’s a much better husband than you’d ever have been,’ she said. ‘Still, I suppose I shan’t meet another man like you.’

  As we parted she gave me an affectionate kiss.

  She had come to show off her happiness, I thought. It was no more than her right. I did not begrudge it. I felt somewhat desolate. It made me think of my own marriage.

  For, as I told Marion, I had never stopped hoping to marry Sheila. Since my first proposal I had not asked her again. But she knew, of course, that, whether I was too proud to pester her or not, she had only to show the slightest wish. In fact, we had lately played sometimes with the future. For months past she had seemed to think more of me; her letters were sometimes intimate and content. She had told me, in one of the phrases that broke out from her locked heart: ‘With you I don’t find joy. But you give me so much hope that I don’t want to go away.’

  That exalted me more than the most explicit word of love from another woman. I hoped, I believed as well as hoped, that the bond between us was too strong for her to escape, and that she would marry me.

  And marriage was at last a practical possibility. I did my usual accounting at the beginning of July 1930. In the last year I had made nearly four hundred and fifty pounds. The briefs were coming in. Without touching wood, I reckoned that a comfortable income was secure. More likely than not, I should earn a large one.

  Just a week after I went through my accounts I woke in the morning with an attack of giddiness. It was like those I used to have, at the time of the Bar Finals. I was a little worried, but did not think much of it. It took me a day or two to accept the fact that I was unwell. I was forced to remember that I had often felt exhausted in the last months. I had gone home from court, stretched myself on the sofa, been too worn out to do anything but watch the window darken. I tried to pretend it was nothing but fatigue. But the morning giddiness lasted, my limbs were heavy; as I walked, the pavement seemed to sink.

  By instinct, I concealed my state from everyone round me. I asked Charles March if he could recommend a doctor; I explained that I had not needed one since I came to London, but that now I had a trivial skin complaint.

  I went to Charles’ doctor, half anxious, half expecting to be reassured as Tom Devitt had reassured me. I got no decision on the first visit. The doctor was waiting for a blood count. Then the result came; it was not clear-cut. I explained to the doctor, whose name was Morris, that I had just established my practice, and could not leave it. I explained that I was hoping to get married. He was kindly and worried. He tried to steady me, ‘It’s shocking bad luck,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to tell you. You may be rather ill.’

  38: Some Kinds of Suffering

  In the surgery, my first concern was to put on a stoical front. Alone in my room, I stared out at the summer sky. The doctor had been vague, he was sending me to a specialist. How serious was it? I was enraged that no one should know, that the disaster should be so nebulous, that instead of having mastered the future I could no longer think a month ahead. Sometimes, for moments together, I could not believe it – just as, after Sheila’s first cruel act, I walked across the park and could not credit that it had happened. Then I was chilled with dread. How gravely was I ill? I was afraid to die.

  Already that afternoon, however, and all the time I was visiting the specialist, there was one direction in which my judgement was clear. No one must know. It would destroy my practice if the truth were known. No one would persevere with a sick young man. That might not matter, I thought grimly. But it was necessary to act as though I should recover. So no one must know, not even my intimates.

  I kept that resolve throughout the doctors’ tests, Fortunately, it was the Long Vacation, and Getliffe was away; his inquisitive eyes might have noticed too much. Fortunately also, although I was very pale, I did not look particularly ill; in fact, having had more money and so eating better, I had put on some weight in the past year. I forced myself to crawl tiredly to Chambers, sit there for some hours, make an effort to work upon a brief. I thought that Percy had his suspicions, and I tried to deceive him about my spirits and my energy. I mentioned casually that I felt jaded after a hard year and that I might go away for a holiday and miss the first few days of next term.

  ‘Don’t be away too long, sir,’ said Percy impassively. ‘It’s easy to get yourself forgotten. It’s easy to do that.’

  From the beginning the doctors guessed that I had pernicious anaemia. They stuck to the diagnosis even when as I afterwards realised – they should have been more sceptical. There was some evidence for it. There was no doubt about the anaemia; my blood counts were low and getting lower; but that could have happened (as Tom Devitt had said years ago) through strain and conflict. But also some of the red cells were pear-shaped instead of round, and some otherwise misshapen; and since the doctors were ready to believe in a pernicious anaemia, that convinced them.

  But the reason why they originally guessed so puzzled me for a long time. For they were sound, cautious doctors of good reputation. It was much later that Charles March, after he had changed his profession and taken to medicine, told me that my physical type was common among pernicious anaemia cases – grey or blue eyes set wide apart, smooth tough skin, thick chest, and ectomorphic limbs. Then at last their diagnosis became easy to understand.

  They were soon certain of it, assured me that it ought to be controllable, and fed me on hog’s stomach. But my blood did not respond: the count went down; and then they did not know what to do. All they could suggest was that I should go abroad and rest, and continue, for want of any other treatment, to eat another protein extract.

  This was at the beginning of August. I could leave, as though it were an ordinary holiday. I still kept my secret, although there were times when my nerve nearly broke, or when I was beyond caring. For my resistance was weakening now. Charles March, who knew that I was ill, but not what the doctor had told me, bought my tickets, and booked me a room at Mentone: I was tired out, and glad to go.

  I had not seen Sheila since I went to be examined. Now I wrote to her. I was not well, I said, and was being sent abroad for a rest. I was travelling the day after she would receive this letter. I was anxious to see her before I left.

  It was my last afternoon in England, and I waited in my room. I knew her trains by heart, That afternoon I did not have long to wait. Within ten minutes of the time that she could theoretically arrive, I heard her step on the stairs.

  She came and kissed me. Then she stood back and studied my face.

  ‘You don’t look so bad,’ she said.

  ‘That’s just as well,’ I said.

  ‘Why is it?’

  I told her it was necessary to go on being hearty in Chambers. It was the kind of sarcastic joke that she usually enjoyed, but now her eyes were strained.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she said harshly.

  She was restless. Her movements were stiff and awkward. She sat down, pulled out a cigarette, then put it back in her case. Timidly she laid a hand on mine.

  ‘I’d no idea there was anything wrong,’ she said.

  I looked at her.

  ‘It must have been going on for some time,’ she said.

  ‘I think it has.’

  ‘I’m usually fairly perceptive,’ she said in a tone aggrieved, conceited, and remorseful. ‘But I didn’t notice a thing.’

  ‘I expect you were busy,’ I said.

  She lost her temper. ‘That’s the most unpleasant thing you’ve ever told me.’

  She was white with anger, right at the flashpoint of
one of her outbursts of acid rage. Then, with an effort, she calmed herself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she cried. ‘I don’t know–’

  In the lull we talked for a few minutes, neutrally, of where we should dine that night.

  Sheila broke away from the conversation, and asked: ‘Are you ill?’

  I did not reply.

  ‘You must be, or you wouldn’t let them send you away. That’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ I said.

  ‘How badly are you ill?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The doctors don’t know either.’

  ‘It may be serious?’

  ‘Yes, it may be.’

  She was staring full at me.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll die in obscurity,’ she said in a high, level voice, with a curious prophetic certainty. She went on: ‘You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Somehow, in her bleak insistence, she made it easier for me. Her eyes were really like searchlights, I thought, picking out things that no one else saw, then swinging past and leaving a gulf of darkness.

  She tried to talk of the future. She broke away again: ‘You’re frightened, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’re more frightened than I should be.’ She considered. ‘Yet you can put on a show to fool your lawyer friends. There are times when you make me feel a child.’

  The day went on. Once she said, without any preliminary: ‘Darling, I wish I were a different woman.’

  She knew that I was begging her for comfort.

  ‘Why didn’t you love someone else? No decent woman could let you go like this.’

  I had said not a word, I had not embraced her that day. She knew that I was begging for the only comfort strong enough to drive out fear. She knew that I craved for the solace of the flesh. She had to let me go without.