by C. P. Snow
My hands dropped. It was the last stronghold of her will.
Without speaking, we looked at each other.
She got up from her chair.
‘Well, it’s over,’ she remarked. ‘You’d better help me pack.’
Her attention was caught by the wind, as mine had been, and she glanced out of the window. The trees swayed to and fro under the grey sky. They were in full June leaf, and the green was brilliant in the diffuse light. Through the window blew the scent of lime.
‘I liked this house,’ she said, and with her strong fingers stroked the window sill.
We went into her sitting-room. It was more dishevelled than I had noticed it; until that evening, I had not fully realized how her finicky tidiness had broken down; just as a husband might not observe her looks deteriorate, when it would leap to the eye of one who had not seen her for a year.
She walked round the room. Though her dress was uncared for, her step was still active, poised, and strong. She asked me to guard her coins. They were too heavy, and too precious, to take with her if she was moving from hotel to hotel. The first thing she packed was her gramophone.
‘I shall want that,’ she said. Into the trunk she began to pack her library of records. As I handed some to her, she gave a friendly smile, regretful but quite without rancour. ‘It’s a pity you weren’t musical,’ she said.
I wanted her to think of clothes.
‘I suppose I shall need some,’ she said indifferently. ‘Fetch me anything you like.’
I put a hand on her shoulder.
‘You must take care of yourself.’ Despite the parting, I was scolding her as in our occasional light-hearted days.
‘Why should I?’
‘You’re not even troubling about your face.’
‘I’m tired of it,’ she cried.
‘For all you can do, it is still beautiful.’ It was true. Her face was haggard, without powder, not washed since that morning or longer, but the structure of the bones showed through; there were dark stains, permanent now, under her eyes, but the eyes themselves were luminous.
‘I’m tired of it,’ she said again.
‘Men will love you more than ever,’ I said, ‘but you mustn’t put them off too much.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You know that you’ve always attracted men–’
‘I know. If I had attracted them less, it might have been better for me. And for you as well.’
She went on stacking books in the trunk, but I stopped her.
‘Listen to me once more. I hope you will find a man who will make you happy. It is possible, I tell you.’
She looked at me, her face still except for the faint grimace of a smile.
‘You must believe that,’ I said urgently. ‘We’ve failed. But this isn’t the end.’
She said: ‘I shan’t try again.’
She sat down and began, with the competence that had once surprised me, to discuss the matter-of-fact arrangements. She would finish packing within an hour, and would spend that night at an hotel. I did not argue any more. Her passport was in order, and she could travel tomorrow. I would transfer money to her in Paris. It was summer, too hot for her to go south immediately. I thought it strange that, even now, she should be governed by her dislike of the heat. She would probably spend the summer in Brittany, and wait till October before she made her way to Italy. After that, she had no plans. She assumed that sooner or later I should want to marry again. If so, I could divorce her whenever I wished.
‘If you are in trouble,’ I said, ‘you must send for me.’
She shook her head.
‘I shan’t do that.’
‘I should want you to.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I might want to, but I shan’t. I’ve done you enough harm.’
She rose and turned her face from me, looking out of the window, away from the room. Her shoulders were rigid, and her back erect.
‘You may need–’
‘It doesn’t matter what I need.’
‘Don’t say that,’
Quite slowly she turned again to face me.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She spoke with absolute control. Her head was high. ‘For a good reason. You said that this wasn’t the end for me, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were wrong.’
She was seeing her future; she was asking for nothing. She did not move an inch towards me. She stood quite straight, with her arms by her sides.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said in a clear voice. ‘I’ll call you when I go.’
50: Walk In the Garden
I walked in the garden. As I turned at the bottom, by the street gate, I saw that Sheila had switched on a light, so that her window shone into the premature dusk. Out of doors, in the moist air, the scent of lime was overpoweringly sweet. Sometimes the warm wind carried also a whiff of the river smell; but over all that night hung the sweet and heavy scent, the scent of a London June.
I could not send her away. I could not manage it. I knew with complete lucidity what it meant. If I were ever to part from her, this was the time. I should not be able to change my mind again. This had been my chance: I could not take it. I was going to call her back, and fall into the old habit. I was about to sentence myself for life.
Yet there was no conflict within me. I was not making a decision. Like all the other decisions of my life, this had been taken before I admitted it – perhaps when I knew that she was lost, certainly when I saw her, upright in her pride, asserting that there was nothing for her. She faced it without pretence. I had never known her pretend. And she would set her will to live accordingly. She would move from hotel to hotel, lonely, more eccentric as each year passed.
I could not bear to let her. There was no more to it than that. Whatever our life was like, it was endurable by the side of what she faced. I must stay by her. I could do no other. I accepted it, as the warm wind blew in my face and I smelt the lime. There was no getting out of it now. Somehow I should have to secure some rest for myself: now it was for life, I must find some way of easing it. In my practical and contriving fashion, I was already casting round – I could bear it better if she did not imprison me quite. But that would be only a relief. It was for life, and I must be there when she wanted me.
I sneezed. Some pollen had touched my nostrils. Perhaps it brought back the sensation of the chalky air in Marion’s classroom, ten years before. Anyway, for a second, I remembered how I had challenged the future then. I had longed for a better world, for fame, for love. I had longed for a better world; and this was the summer of 1933. I had longed for fame: and I was a second-rate lawyer. I had longed for love: and I was bound for life to a woman who never had love for me and who had exhausted mine.
As I remembered, I was curiously at one with myself. I smiled. No one could call it a good record. The world’s misfortunes, of course, had nothing to do with me – but my own, yes, they were my fault. Another man in my place would not have chosen them. I had not seen enough of my life yet to perceive the full truth of what my nature needed. I could not distinguish the chance from the inevitable. But I already knew that my bondage to Sheila was no chance. Somehow I was so made that I had to reject my mother’s love and all its successors. Some secret caution born of a kind of vanity made me bar my heart to any who forced their way within. I could only lose caution and vanity, bar and heart, the whole of everything I was, in the torment of loving someone like Sheila, who invaded me not at all and made me crave for a spark of feeling, who was so wrapped in herself that only the violence and suffering of such a love as mine brought the slightest glow.
My suffering over Sheila was the release of my vanity. At twenty-eight, walking in the garden on that night after I had tried to escape, they were the deepest parts of myself that I had so far seen. It was not the picture that others saw, for I passed as a man of warm affections, capable of sympathy and self-effacingness. That was not altogether false – one cannot act a part for y
ears; but I knew what lay in reserve. It was not tenderness that was to stop me sending Sheila away, at this time when I knew the cost of keeping her and when my passion was spent. It was simply that she touched the depth of my vanity and suffering, and that this was my kind of love. Yet, like George after his trial, I was still borne up by hope. More realistic than he was, I had seen something of myself, and something of my fate. In detail, I did not burke the certain truths. I should never be able to shelve my responsibility for her. That was permanent – but did I think that one day I should find true love in another? I should now never make a success at the Bar – did I think one day I might get a new start?
I was twenty-eight, and I could still hope. Those random encouragements were blowing in the warm wind, and I felt, as well as the strength of acceptance, a hope of the fibres, a hope of young manhood. That night, I had come to terms with what I must do. But I breathed the scent of the limes, and the half-thought visited me: ‘She said that she had come to the end. As for me, I am nowhere near the end.’
I looked up at her window. I had delayed going in to her, but I could delay no longer. The house was quiet. I opened the door of her room. She was standing, so still that she might have been frozen, by the trunk.
She said: ‘I told you to leave me alone.’
I said: ‘I can’t let you go.’
For a second her face was smooth as though with shock. Then it hardened again.
‘I’ve told you, I shall go tonight.’
I said: ‘I can’t let you go at all.’
She asked: ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’
I said: ‘I know very well.’ I added: ‘I’m saying that I shall never speak to you as I did tonight. Not as long as we live.’
‘You know what you’ll lose?’
I repeated: ‘I know very well.’
‘I trust you,’ she cried. ‘I trust you.’ Her control was near to snapping, but suddenly she braced herself again and said harshly: ‘It won’t be any different. I can’t make it any easier for you.’
I nodded my head, and then smiled at her.
In the same harsh tone, she said: ‘You’re all I’ve got.’ Her face was working. She said again: ‘You’re all I’ve got.’
She crumpled up, almost as if she were fainting. I sat on the sofa, and she sank her head into my lap, without another word or sound. Time and time again I stroked her hair. Outside the window, the tops of the trees were swaying in the wind.
Strangers & Brothers Series
Series in broad chronological ‘story’ order (see Synopses below for ‘Series order’)
Dates given refer to first publication dates
These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as stand-alone novels
1. Time of Hope 1949
2. George Passant (Originally entitled ‘Strangers & Brothers’) 1940
3. The Conscience of the Rich 1958
4. The Light and the Dark 1947
5. The Masters 1951
6. The New Men 1954
7. Homecomings 1956
8. The Affair 1960
9. Corridors of Power 1964
10. The Sleep of Reason 1968
11. Last Things 1970
Synopses (Both Series & ‘Stand-alone’ Titles)
Published by House of Stratus
A. Strangers and Brothers Series (series order)
These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as stand-alone novels
George Passant
In the first of the Strangers and Brothers series Lewis Eliot tells the story of George Passant, a Midland solicitor’s managing clerk and idealist who tries to bring freedom to a group of people in the years 1925 to 1933.
The Light & The Dark
The Light and the Dark is the second in the Strangers and Brothers series. The story is set in Cambridge, but the plot also moves to Monte Carlo, Berlin and Switzerland. Lewis Eliot narrates the career of a childhood friend. Roy Calvert is a brilliant but controversial linguist who is about to be elected to a fellowship.
Time of Hope
The third in the Strangers and Brothers series (although the first in chronological order) and tells the story of Lewis Eliot’s early life. As a child he is faced with his father’s bankruptcy. As a young man, he finds his career at the Bar hindered by a neurotic wife. Separation from her is impossible however.
The Masters
The fourth in the Strangers and Brothers series begins with the dying Master of a Cambridge college. His imminent demise causes intense rivalry and jealousy amongst the other fellows. Former friends become enemies as the election looms.
The New Men
It is the onset of World War II in the fifth in the Strangers and Brothers series. A group of Cambridge scientists are working on atomic fission. But there are consequences for the men who are affected by it. Hiroshima also causes mixed personal reactions.
Homecomings
Homecomings is the sixth in the Strangers and Brothers series and sequel to Time of Hope. This complete story in its own right follows Lewis Eliot’s life through World War II. After his first wife’s death his work at the Ministry assumes a larger role. It is not until his second marriage that Eliot is able to commit himself emotionally.
The Conscience of the Rich
Seventh in the Strangers and Brothers series, this is a novel of conflict exploring the world of the great Anglo-Jewish banking families between the two World Wars. Charles March is heir to one of these families and is beginning to make a name for himself at the Bar. When he wishes to change his way of life and do something useful he is forced into a quarrel with his father, his family and his religion.
The Affair
In the eighth in the Strangers and Brothers series Donald Howard, a young science Fellow is charged with scientific fraud and dismissed from his college. This novel, which became a successful West End play, describes a miscarriage of justice in the same Cambridge college which served as a setting for ‘The Masters’
The Corridors of Power
The corridors and committee rooms of Whitehall are the setting for the ninth in the Strangers and Brothers series. They are also home to the manipulation of political power. Roger Quaife wages his ban-the-bomb campaign from his seat in the Cabinet and his office at the Ministry. The stakes are high as he employs his persuasiveness.
The Sleep Of Reason
The penultimate novel in the Strangers and Brothers series takes Goya‘s theme of monsters that appear in our sleep. The sleep of reason here is embodied in the ghastly murders of children that involve torture and sadism.
Last Things
The last in the Strangers and Brothers series has Sir Lewis Eliot’s heart stop briefly during an operation. During recovery he passes judgement on his achievements and dreams. Concerns fall from him leaving only ironic tolerance. His son Charles takes up his father’s burdens and like his father, he is involved in the struggles of class and wealth, but he challenges the Establishment, risking his future in political activities.
B. Other Novels
A Coat of Varnish
Humphrey Leigh, retired resident of Belgravia, pays a social visit to an old friend, Lady Ashbrook. She is waiting for her test results, fearing cancer. When Lady Ashbrook gets the all clear she has ten days to enjoy her new lease of life. And then she is found murdered.
Death Under Sail
Roger Mills, a Harley Street specialist, is taking a sailing holiday on the Norfolk Broads. When his six guests find him at the tiller of his yacht with a smile on his face and a gunshot through his heart, all six fall under suspicion in this, C P Snow’s first novel.
In Their Wisdom
Economic storm clouds gather as bad political weather is forecast for the nation. Three elderly peers look >on from the sidelines of the House of Lords andwonder if it will mean the end of a certain way of life. Against this background is set a court struggle over a disputed will that escalates into an almighty battle.
The Malcontents
> Thomas Freer is a prosperous solicitor who is also the Registrar, responsible for his cathedral’s legal business. His son Stephen is one of a secret group of young men and women known as the core. When Stephen’s group ctivities land them in terrible trouble, no one guesses that the consequences will lead to a death and more.
The Search
This story told in the first person starts with a child’s interest in the night sky. A telescope starts a lifetime’s interest in science. The narrator goes up to King’s College, London to study. As a fellow at Cambridge he embarks on love affairs and searches for love at the same time as career success. Finally, contentment in love exhausts his passion for research.
C. Non-Fiction
The Physicists
C.P. Snow’s sketches of famous physicists and explanation of how atomic weapons were developed gives an overview of science often lacking. This study provides us with hope for the future as well as anecdotes from history.
Trollope
C P Snow’s passion for Anthony Trollope makes for an interesting biography of the famous writer. His early career in the Post Office, his thwarted political ambitions and his personal life are all recounted here, along with a knowledgable and perceptive take on his ‘art’.
More Non-Fiction coming soon - including The Realists
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