Chapter XV
Arthur Lawson took very little interest in the stock market. There was a time, years before, when he had speculated. He had liked the excitement while he was still young, he had liked to win on the game—as indeed he had. He might have remained at it, as do many of his fellows, all his life, had not three convergent pieces of success, only one of which was on a gamble in shares, the other two being on an accidental piece of early information and an unexpectedly large commission on an unexpectedly large order with which he had been entrusted, put him into the possession of a lump of money upon a different scale from the increasing fortune he had hitherto enjoyed. He had moved up at once on to that plane, the leaders of which can be counted in two figures; and then on to that highest group of all in which less than a score of men act as the basis of finance. He was behind national loans, great underwriting, and solid issues of the largest kind; and was also the chief in the very great banking house of Schwartz.
This was the moment of transition in which he had bought that isolated house in Mayfair which had not its like in London, and with which he was everywhere now associated.
But in the very great position which he now held, and which amplified, as these things do, year after year, automatically, his distaste for the uncertain things of the market grew. He had no hobby. He was the sort of man who, if he had had a hobby, would have made it take up all his life in the place of his business.
He found himself lonely. He tried to fill his hours with the world-wide responsibilities which lay upon him. They did not suffice. Had he known Wilfrid Halterton more intimately, and had it been possible for the two men to be really in communion with each other—from difference of blood and traditions it was not—he would have liked to have strengthened the bond there. He did indeed now formally call upon the Postmaster-General rather more often than he had done in the immediate past—but still, never more than three or perhaps four times in the year.
Those who imagine that such men are soaked in the thought of money, and especially of money that changes, know nothing of their kind. While all the world had been talking of the ups and downs of Billies during these exciting weeks, he had heard nothing but a sort of confused noise like the murmur of small and distant waves. It did not interest him. It had something to do with the Post Office, but he did not connect the matter with Wilfrid Halterton, though he knew that his friend was for the moment the head of the Post Office. The name of Halterton stood in his mind for a permanent and fixed gratitude, rooted there for half a tenacious lifetime. He had for the whole political world such contempt, and lived so much aloof from it, that he hardly cared to remember which ephemeral office the man now held. For Arthur Lawson Wilfrid Halterton was still the eager, young, impulsive man whom he had put into a shrine nearly forty years since as the man whose heart had been so moved for his brother.
To have that brother with him as much as possible was now the one object of Lawson’s life. He got him down from Cambridge every week-end during term. He was perpetually suggesting this and that which might be done with his wealth for the scientific equipment of the College. He had already benefited it largely. He was never tired of listening to everything Jacob had to tell him, from the stories of the Common Room to the last developments in physical research; things which from any other lips would have been tedious to him.
But though Lawson on this high mountain peak of international finance had bothered no more about Billies than about the price of Danish butter, he could not remain ignorant of the scene in the House of Commons, the public denials of the accused, the Committee, and the trial—especially the trial. It was a subject that bored him, but he could not help knowing the main lines of it, in company with all England.
In that week-end after the conclusion of Butler’s ordeal Jacob was sitting with his brother as usual, and Jacob had an interest in this affair of which everyone was talking—an interest which had indeed nothing to do with politics, a professional interest in the new developments of Television. It would have bored Arthur stiff to have heard anyone else holding forth on that subject, especially as it had got mixed up, in some way at which he held his nose, with the stench of Westminster. But from Jacob it was as interesting as an absorbing book. Anything that made Jacob’s keen, brilliant eyes keener and more brilliant entered at once into the soul of his brother. That brother listened and questioned, got into the matter as a man gets into some intricate plot, heard a comparison between the various systems, and heard—incidentally—the name of Dow’s Patent.
“That’s the whole point,” Jacob was saying. “That’s the whole point, Aaron.”
He spoke eagerly, as might a man spotting a distant mark at sea.
“It’s because Reynier’s were supposed to have Dow’s that they were thought the only possible people. Of course, now Durrant’s have got the contract—I don’t know why, I suppose they’re better than the others —anyhow, now Durrant’s have got the Charter, Reynier’s will have to sell Dow’s Patent to Durrant’s, if they’ve got it. Whoever’s got it will have to sell to Durrant’s. There’ll be no other market. But that’s not the interest—the interest is in Dow’s thing itself. Isn’t it extraordinary, Aaron, how men tumble upon these things? It comes quite by chance … of course, it couldn’t be done without patience and research, still, it’s luck when such things do come; and then, when some chance man has tumbled upon them, everything is plain sailing. And what’s more, when the thing has been found, it’s found for good. Nothing can replace it—nine times out of ten …”
“I don’t see why some new invention should not be even better than Dow’s,” said the other.
Jacob shook his head.
“Look here,” he said, “I’ll read you a passage in Colman’s description; it’s the best I know. I’ve got it down here in my commonplace book, for my lectures. It’s the most recent book, too.” He read the passage. The other took it in clearly enough. This unfortunate man Dow, who had died in such poverty and whose patents were now held by Dow’s Limited, had hit upon the one Intensifier which made long range Television a practical proposition.
“You know, Jackey,” said the elder brother, “a layman like me can’t see why some totally new and better thing shouldn’t appear sooner or later.”
Jacob put away his book. “Perhaps—sooner or later,’ he said.” One never knows. But they have been at it for years. And Dow solved it. These things have a way of being final. You remember the case of the secondary battery, Aaron, away back in the 19th century, more than two lifetimes ago?”
Arthur shook his head. It astonished Jacob that any man should be ignorant of such elementary things.
“My dear Aaron!” he said, “surely you know that they have never been able to better lead? Surely you know that’s why we’ve never had a cheap and light and durable electric storage to this day? Surely you know that if we could have found something else it would have changed the world?”
Arthur smiled slightly but happily, as he never smiled but at his brother’s enthusiasms.
“I can’t help it, Jakey,” he said. “It’s too late to learn. But I believe every word you say.”
Then they went on to talk about the luck of scientific discovery, Jacob enthusiastic for the discoveries, and Arthur wondering why he said not a word about their reward; for reward, so far as Aaron could remember, only about one in a dozen ever received.
And from that they went on to the old subject of money. But it soon dried up, for whenever that nerve was touched Jacob went into his shell; he was content, he was perfectly content with what he had as a Fellow of Merrion. It was ample. And the older brother for the fiftieth time gave up the attempt. In his heart he thoroughly agreed. “Better a dinner of herbs. …” Only he did not say it in English. He said it, still smiling, in the ancient tongue. And his brother smiled back at him, and replied in the ancient tongue: “Blessed be God.”
Next day Arthur Lawson again bethought him of Wilfrid Halterton, but not in connection with the conversat
ion on Dow’s Patent. His mind still did not connect the two ideas. He understood vaguely now that Durrant’s would have the monopoly. He supposed Durrant’s had been chosen for good reasons. But at any rate, Halterton had been in the glare of publicity, and that was never pleasant. It was his duty to go and see that friend, and at the same time to congratulate him upon his success.
It was not so very long since he had last made one of those pilgrimages to Halterton’s house for one of those formal conversations which had become a ritual of his life. It was a little early for him to call again in the same fashion, but he thought the circumstances demanded it.
After all, there had been an accumulation of bother. Halterton had come out of it very well, with the hearty sympathy of his colleagues, and for the matter of fact, of the public at large. But these things were a strain; perhaps, thought Lawson, more of a strain for those other people than it would have been for him and his, who were used to the hostility of the world, and were steeled against it. He mused within himself. What must it feel like? Something like what he remembered it felt like years and years and years ago in his boyhood, when after the insults of Gentiles in the streets, to which he was inured, he found among his own fellows in his own little day school that some accident had lost him the friendship of a few, and made him wretched for a day or two.
Anyhow, clearly he must call upon Wilfrid Halterton and assure him that the sympathy which all had felt for him during his recent ordeal had been stronger with him than with any other. He must congratulate Wilfrid Halterton upon the general support he had had and on the higher position in public life which must be the consequence of it.
He was in such a mood when, after making his appointment, he arrived and found Halterton alone in his flat—and at once he was shocked by the change in the man.
Lawson did not say to himself that Halterton looked older. It was not that. Though indeed he did look older—ten years older. It was more that he looked broken. He fell into nervous gestures as he talked. His eyes were never still. His mouth was drawn, and his strained expression seemed permanent.
Moreover, he greeted Lawson with quite unexpected warmth, as men will when they feel themselves ill-used by the world and half abandoned, and find before them an assured friend. And Lawson, upon his side, by nature reserved, and in the case of Wilfrid Halterton always formal, went more than half-way to meet him. He took the Postmaster-General’s hand in his, and held it longer than men hold another man’s hand in a mere greeting. As he held it, he looked deeply into the other’s eyes, so that Halterton’s fell before his. Then, just as Lawson was beginning to speak, the Postmaster-General suddenly sat down like a man with a great burden on his shoulders, who cannot maintain his attitude a moment more; one might almost say that the long frame collapsed into the low chair. He was up again in a moment, almost with a start, ready to blush for his ill-breeding.
“I beg your pardon, my dear fellow,” he said. “I am sorry. You see, I am not myself.” He sighed openly and deeply. It was nearly a groan. “I am not myself. I can’t think why I sat down like that and left you standing. But do sit down, my dear fellow. I’m so glad to see you.” He put out his hand again, half forgetting that he had but just made that gesture. And once again Lawson took it, and this time he did not let it go.
“Halterton,” he said (he never called him Wilfrid)
“I didn’t expect to find you like this. What’s the matter? I had come to congratulate you.”
“Congratulate me? Oh! God!”
In the silence that followed the very rapid mind of Arthur Lawson moved at double its customary pace. He was revising at a gallop the very little he knew, the unheeded details of the affair which had reached him —and he thought he already half understood.
When he spoke, it was with such a voice as this acquaintance of three decades standing did not know he could use. It was a voice at once grave and deep with a profound affection; it was full of the years. And in that voice Arthur Lawson took upon himself to say things which not an hour before, as he approached the house, he would have thought himself incapable of using. His ritual broke, and what he said was this:
“Halterton, you know that whatever I say to you will be said from the bottom of my heart? Do you trust my wisdom?”
The Postmaster-General nodded, if raising the bent head slightly and sinking back again could be called nodding; and the glance which he lifted in that same gesture for a moment to the other’s face was permissive. He had as much respect as any man for fortune, and anything that this vastly wealthy man could say was sure to be wise. But Arthur Lawson’s wisdom had no connection with his fortune. It was something that went back through generations. It had been annealed by suffering and strengthened by isolation.
“What I want to say to you is this. You must speak. I can see that as plainly as though you had already told me things of which I know nothing. That is my advice. You must speak. You must tell someone, and believe me” (he had never spoken so unreservedly before to anyone in his life, not even to one of his own people) “there is no one to whom you could speak more openly and clearly or with more advantage than myself. You know that everything I have is at your disposal—but that is nothing. What you want is a word from a man who knows men. It’s not a nice kind of knowledge. If you have not got it you are fortunate. It is the tree of death. But those who have got it can help you. And you can help yourself too. But there’s only one way. Tell me everything.”
There were twenty men, at least, there were perhaps fifty, whom Wilfrid would have told you that he knew much better than Arthur Lawson. There was one man after another to whom he had said this or that. He had told too much to Jack Williams; he had grumbled to that colleague and to this relative; it had only got him deeper into the morass. He wished he had never touched political life at all. He wished he could be rid of it now—only he dared not. And in the midst of it all was that strong feeling of injustice.
He had been robbed of his due. He had given that which he had to give, and for which they had come, and by an abominable trick he had been despoiled of his side of the bargain. What was worse, he felt himself permanently in the power of others.
When he spoke, it was from this bitterness, festering within him and come to a head. He rose and, hands in pockets, began to move up and down the room, a lank, drawn-out despair; and as he moved he spoke. He told Lawson all. He told him of the agreement, which Lawson as a man of the world found reasonable enough—he had heard of fifty such between politicians and the City. Sometimes you did not know which was which, thought he, so closely was Parliament mixed with share-shuffling.
Halterton told him of the filching of the letter. He told him of the conversation with Williams. He told him what he had suffered since; he told him how keenly he had resented Williams’s continued friendship with McAuley; the two men were more together than ever. He told him how he regretted having gone to Williams at all, and by the time he ended Arthur Lawson not only knew what had happened, he also knew what was to be done.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am you have spoken, Halterton,” he said. “And now I am going to give you some further advice. Do you think you’ll take it?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Halterton. “I can trust you, thank God!” he added bitterly.
“Well, the advice I have got to give you is very simple. Sit tight for a few days and leave it to me, will you?” He smiled very slightly as he said this, but gravely confident in spite of the smile.
“Let me see. To-day’s Sunday. Don’t expect to hear from me till Wednesday, or perhaps later—but it won’t be much later—if I know anything of the way things are done. And I think I do.”
Wilfrid Halterton was even more sure of that. He was profoundly sure that men with untold millions knew how things were done. It was perhaps the most fixed article in his creed, and the more fixed because he himself had no idea how things were done.
Arthur Lawson was a man who, having come to a decision, had to act. He had blamed himself fo
r his impatience in the past, after one or two slips due to it, but that intense craving for action following upon an intellectual conclusion had upon the whole served him well.
“I am going back home now, Halterton,” he said, rising. The other rose with him, and once more they joined hands.
This time Arthur Lawson did a thing so unusual with him that it marked a sort of epoch in the other’s life, and he himself when he discovered what he was doing was astonished. He put his left hand upon the other’s, which he was grasping with his right, and let it lie there as a man may in the most solemn moments of pledging loyalty and service. It was a gesture of not ten seconds; it was over and it was never to be repeated. The men were elderly, they had never held such communion before, but at the end of those ten seconds Halterton felt as a sleepless man feels when sleep has come upon him; as a drowning man feels when he again drinks in the blessed air. His face was renewed.
Aaron Levina was about to do a thing as profitable to his own lonely heart as could be done. His isolation was not broken; he still remained what he had been before that brief interview; but he felt that with one of the Goyim at least, the only one of them whom he had ever approached with devotion, he had made a link. It mattered not. He would make no other. He was of his own people. What had he to do with the outer swarms? But he would save Wilfrid Halterton.
Chapter XVI
The first thing Arthur Lawson did when he got home was to begin to question his brother again about Dow’s. His plan was already made, and he was preparing the first step. But Jacob could not tell him what he wanted to know. The scientist reiterated all that he had said to his brother upon the absolute necessity of Dow’s Patent; but he had nothing more to add, except emphasis. There was no rival. There were plenty of Intensifiers, which had worked well enough at the short ranges, but it was not a question of increase in power, it was not a question of scale. Long range involved a totally different principle; and Dow, and Dow only, had solved the problem.
The Postmaster General Page 16
