by C. P. Snow
‘Well, then?’ I said.
‘I do think that’s reasonably all right,’ he said, glad to be talking at a distance, like an Olympian god who hadn’t yet decided on his favourite. ‘I don’t believe you need have that on your mind.’
‘Then what do I need to have on my mind?’ Again I could not read his expression. His face was set, authoritative, and when he wasn’t forcing smiles, without pretence.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I’ve been having to spend some time with the Security people.’ He added sharply: ‘Far too much time, I may say.’
Suddenly, comfortably, I thought I had it. Tuesday was New Year’s Day. Each year, Rose sat in the group which gave out Honours. Was it conceivable that something had leaked, from our office? I asked: ‘Have some of the names slipped out?’
Rose looked at me, irritated. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you.’
‘I meant, have some of the names in next week’s list got out?’
‘No, my dear chap, nothing like that. Nothing like that at all.’ It was rare for him to let his impatience show through. He had to make an effort to control it, before he spoke calmly, precisely, choosing his words: ‘I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. But I think I remember telling you, some months ago, about representations from various quarters, which I said then that I was doing my best to resist. When would that be?’
We both had good memories, trained memories. He knew, without my telling him, that it had been back in September, when he warned me that ‘the knives were sharpening’. We could both have written a précis of that conversation.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I haven’t been able to resist indefinitely. These people – what do they call them, in their abominable jargon? “pressure groups”? – have been prepared to go over our heads. There’s no remedy for it. Some of our scientists, I mean our most eminent scientists advising on defence policy – and that, I need hardly tell you, is our friend Quaife’s policy – are going to be put through a new security investigation. I fancy the name for this procedure, though it is not specially elegant, is “double checking”.’
Rose was speaking with bitter distaste, distaste apparently as much for me as for the pressure groups, as he went on with his exposition, magisterial, orderly, and lucid. Some of this influence had been set in motion by Brodzinski, working on the members whom he knew. Some might have got going independently. Some had been wafted over via Washington – prompted, perhaps, by Brodzinski’s speeches, or his friends there, or possibly by a re-echo of the Question in the House.
‘We could have resisted any of these piecemeal,’ said Rose. ‘Though, as you may have noticed, our masters are not at – shall I say, their most Cromwellian – when faced with a “suggestion” from our major allies. But we could not resist them all combined. You must try to give us the benefit of the doubt.’
Our eyes met, each of us blank-faced. No one apologized more profusely than Rose, when apologies were not needed: no one hated apologizing more, when the occasion was real.
‘The upshot is,’ he went on, ‘that some of our more distinguished scientists, who have done good service to the State, are going to have to submit to a distinctly humiliating experience. Or alternatively, be cut off from any connection with the real stuff.’
‘Who are they?’
‘There are one or two who don’t matter much to us. Then there’s Sir Laurence Astill.’
I could not help smiling. Rose gave a wintry grin.
‘I must say,’ I said, ‘I think that’s rather funny. I wish I could be there when it happens.’
‘I have an idea,’ said Rose, ‘that he was thrown in to make things look more decent.’
‘The others?’
‘One is Walter Luke. Between ourselves, since he’s a chief Government scientist, I take that distinctly ill.’
I swore.
‘But still,’ I said, ‘Walter’s a very tough man. I don’t think he’ll mind.’
‘I hope not.’ He paused. ‘Another is a very old friend of yours. Francis Getliffe.’
I sat silent. At last I said: ‘This is a scandal.’
‘I’ve tried to indicate that I don’t regard it with enthusiasm myself.’
‘It’s not only a scandal, but it’s likely to be serious,’ I went on.
‘That was one of my reasons for dragging you here this afternoon.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know Francis very well. I’ve known him since we were very young men. He’s as proud as a man can be. I doubt, I really do doubt, whether he’ll take this.’
‘You must tell him he’s got to.’
‘Why should he?’
‘Duty,’ said Rose.
‘He’s only been lending a hand at all because of duty. If he’s going to be insulted into the bargain–’
‘My dear Lewis,’ said Rose, with a flash of icy temper, ‘a number of us, no doubt less eminent than Getliffe, but still reasonably adequate in our profession, are insulted in one way or another towards the end of our careers. But that doesn’t permit us to abdicate.’
It was almost the only personal complaint I had heard him make, and then half-veiled. I said:‘All Francis wants is to get on with his research and live in peace.’
Rose replied: ‘If I may borrow your own debating technique, may I suggest that, if he does so, there is slightly less chance that either he or any of the rest of us will live in peace?’
He continued sharply: ‘Let’s drop the nonsense. We all know that Getliffe is the scientific mind behind Quaife’s policy. For military things, I think we’re all agreed that he’s the best scientific mind we’ve got. That being so, he’s just got to swallow his pride. You’ve got to tell him so. I repeat, that was one of my reasons for giving you this news today. We’ll probably hear of this unpleasantness tomorrow afternoon. You’ve got to soften the blow before he hears, and persuade him. If you believe in this policy so much – and I thought, forgive me, that there were certain indications that you did – you can’t do any less.’
I waited for a moment, then said, as quietly as I could: ‘What I’ve only just realized – is that you believe in this policy so much.’
Rose did not smile or blink, or show any sign of acquiescence.
‘I am a civil servant,’ he said. ‘I play according to the rules.’ Briskly he asked me: ‘Tell me, how embarrassing is this going to be for Francis Getliffe?’
‘How sensibly do you think they’ll handle him?’
‘They will be told – they may just possibly even know – that he’s an important man.’ He went on, the sarcasm left behind: ‘He has the reputation of being far to the Left. You know that?’
‘Of course I know that,’ I replied. ‘He was a radical in the Thirties. In some ways he still thinks of himself as a radical. That may be true intellectually. But in his heart, it isn’t.’
Rose did not answer for some instants. Then he pointed with his foot over to my right. I turned and looked. It was an oil-painting, like a great many in the drawing-room, of a Victorian officer, side-whiskered, high-coloured, pop-eyed, period that of the Zulu Wars.
‘The trouble with our major allies,’ he said, ‘is that they methodically read every speech Francis Getliffe has ever made, and can’t believe that any of us know anything about him. One of the few advantages of living in England, is that we do know just a little about one another, don’t you agree? We know, for instance, the not entirely irrelevant fact that Francis Getliffe is as likely to betray his country as’ – Rose read the name under the painting without emphasis, but with his bitterest edge – ‘Lieutenant-General Sir James Brudenell, Bart., CB.’
He was still speaking under strain. It had not got less, but greater, after he had broken the news about Francis. There was a jagged pause before he said: ‘There’s something else you’ll have to warn Getliffe about. I confess I find it offensive. But modern thought on this kind of procedure apparently requires what they like to call “research” int
o the subject’s sexual life.’
Taken unawares, I grinned. ‘They won’t get much for their trouble,’ I said. ‘Francis married young, and they’ve lived happily ever after.’
I added: ‘But what are they going to ask?’
‘I’ve already suggested to them that it wouldn’t be tactful to bring up the subject to Sir Francis Getliffe himself. But they’ll feel obliged to scurry round his acquaintances and see if he’s liable to any kind of blackmail. That is, I take it, to find out whether he has mistresses, or other attachments. As you know, there is a curious tendency to assume that any homosexual attachment means that a man is probably a traitor. I must say, I should like them to sell that to — and—’
For once, Rose, the most discreet of men, was not at all discreet. He had given the names of a particularly tough Minister and of a high public servant.
‘I must say,’ I echoed him, ‘I should like someone to tell Francis that it was being seriously investigated whether he had homosexual attachments or not.’
The thought was not without humour.
But then I said: ‘Look here, I don’t think he’s going to endure this.’
‘He’s got to,’ said Rose, unyielding. ‘It’s intolerable, but it’s the way we live. I must ask you to ring him up tonight. You must talk to him before he hears from anyone else.’
There was a silence.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.
‘I’m grateful,’ said Rose. ‘I’ve told you before, this was one reason why I had to talk to you today.’
‘What’s the other reason?’ I had been dense, but suddenly I knew.
‘The other reason, I’m afraid, is that the same procedure is to be applied to you.’
I exclaimed. My temper boiled up. I was outraged.
‘I’m sorry, Eliot,’ said Rose.
For years he had called me by my Christian name. Now, telling me this news, he felt as much estranged as when we first met. He had never really liked me. Over the years, we had established colleague-like relations, some sort of respect, some sort of trust. I had given him a little trouble, because, in an irregular position, I had taken liberties which a career civil servant could not, or would not, think of taking. Things I had said and written hadn’t been easy for him. He had ‘picked up the pieces’, not good-humouredly, but according to his obligation. Now, at last he hadn’t been able to protect me, as, by his sense of fitness, he should have protected a colleague. He felt something like dishonoured, leaving me exposed. As a consequence, he liked me less than he had ever done.
‘It doesn’t make it any more agreeable,’ he said stiffly, ‘but this has nothing to do with suggestions from our allies. They have asked questions about Getliffe, but nothing about you. No, you seem to have some enemies at home. I take it that isn’t exactly a surprise to you?’
‘Do you expect me to stand for it?’
‘I’ve got to say to you what I said about Getliffe.’
After a while, during which we sat mute opposite each other, he said, strained, cold, hostile: ‘I think I ought to make it as smooth for you as I can. If you don’t care to submit to this business, then I will make an excuse, which shouldn’t be beyond human ingenuity, and someone they’re less interested in can take over the defence work. Not of course’ – with an effort, punctilio returned – ‘that anyone else could be so valuable to us, my dear Lewis.’
‘Do you seriously think I could take that offer?’
‘I made it in good faith.’
‘You knew I couldn’t possibly accept?’
Rose had become as angry as I was. ‘Do you really believe that I haven’t resisted this business for weeks?’
‘But it has still happened.’
Rose spoke with deliberate fairness, with deliberate reasonableness: ‘I repeat, I’m sorry. As a matter of historical fact, I have been arguing your case and Getliffe’s most of the autumn. But yesterday they gave me no option. I also repeat, I want to do anything in the department’s power to make it smooth for you. If I were you, I think I should feel very much as you do. Please forget about telephoning Getliffe. It was inconsiderate of me to ask you that, when I had to talk about something which was even more unpleasant for you. And, incidentally, for me. There’s no need to decide anything tonight. Let me know tomorrow what you would like done.’
He had spoken with fairness. But I was a reproach, sitting there. All he wanted was for me to get out of his sight. As for me, I could not manage even the grace of his fairness.
‘No, there’s no choice,’ I said roughly. ‘You may as well tell these people to go ahead.’
31: Recommendation by a Prudent Man
That night I did my duty, and rang up Francis in Cambridge. I was angry with him, just as Rose had been with me, because I had to persuade him. I was angry because he was so stiff-necked and hard to persuade. I was angry with Margaret, because of love and her own high-principled temper she was saying what I wanted to say: that Francis and I should each of us resign and leave them to it.
But I felt something else, which I had not felt before, or not since I was a very young man – the intense, mescalin-vivid sense of being watched. When I picked up the receiver and asked for the Cambridge number, I was listening (was the line tapped?) to sounds on the aural threshold. The clicks and tinkles seemed to me as though they had been picked up by an amplifier.
It was the same for days to come. I remembered a refugee, years before, telling me one of the prices of exile. One had to think about actions which, before one left home, were as unconscious as dreaming. Now I knew what that meant. I found myself looking round before I took a taxi. Though the light was dim, the trees of the Park appeared to be preternaturally sharp; I felt I could have counted each twig. The top-light of another taxi shone like a beacon.
Early in the week, Ellen telephoned: she had that morning received another anonymous letter: she and Roger wanted to talk to me together. Once more the world outside seemed over-brilliant. As we talked of where to meet, we sounded reasonable, to each other and to ourselves, but we weren’t quite. We had lost our sense of fact, just as people do when they are hypnotized by secrets: just as my brother and I had once done, when, in the war, worried by what we knew, we had gone into the middle of Hyde Park so as not to be overheard.
In the end – it was like being young and poor again, with nowhere to take one’s young woman – we dropped in, one by one, into a pub on the Embankment. When I arrived, the lounge was empty and I sat at a table in the corner. Soon Roger joined me. I noticed that, despite all the photographs, no one behind the bar recognized him. Ellen came in: I went and greeted her, and brought her to the table.
She gave Roger her severe introductory smile, but her skin was glowing and the whites of her eyes as clear as a child’s. She looked as though strain and suspicion were good for her, as though energy was pumping through her. Of the three of us, it was Roger who seemed physically subdued. Yet, as I read the new letter Ellen had brought out of her bag, he was watching me with eyes as alert as hers.
The letter was in the same handwriting, but the words had run close together. The tone was threatening (‘you haven’t much longer to make him change his mind’) and, for the first time, obscene. It was a curious kind of obscenity – as though the writer, setting out for a hard-baked business purpose – had gone off the track, had become as obsessed as someone scrawling in a public lavatory. The obsession slithered on, insinuating, sadistic, glassy-eyed.
I didn’t want to go on reading, and pushed the letter away over the glass table-top.
‘Well?’ cried Ellen.
Roger sank back in his chair. Like me, he was shocked, and at the same time didn’t like being shocked. In a deliberately off-hand tone he said: ‘One thing is fairly clear. He doesn’t like us very much.’
‘I’m not going to stand it,’ she said.
‘What else can we do?’ Roger asked her, in a placating voice.
‘I’m going to do something.’ She appealed to me
– no, announced to me: ‘Don’t you agree, this is the time to do something?’
In the past minute, I had realized that for the first time they were split. That was why I had been asked there that night. She wanted me on her side: and Roger, as he sat back in his chair, giving sensible, cautious reasons why they had to go on enduring this in silence, believed that I had to be on his.
He had spoken with caution, but without much authority. The words came slowly. As for this man, there was no sign that the threats would come to anything. Let it alone. Pretend they were unmoved. It was a nuisance they could live with.
‘That’s easy for you,’ said Ellen.
He stared at her. It was nearly always wrong, he said quietly, to take steps when you couldn’t see the end.
‘This man can be stopped,’ she insisted.
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘We can go to the police,’ she said sharply. ‘They’ll protect you. Do you know that he could get six months for this?’
‘I dare say so.’ Roger looked at her with a touch of exasperation, as if she were a child being obtuse about her sums. ‘But I am not in a position to appear in a witness-box as Mr X. One has to be singularly anonymous for that particular activity. You must see that. I can’t be Mr X.’
She was silent for a minute. ‘No. Of course you can’t.’
He put his hand on hers for a second.
Then she flared up again. ‘But that isn’t the only way. As soon as I knew who he was, I knew he could be stopped. He’ll crumple up. This is my business, and I’m going to do it.’ Her eyes were wide open with passion. She fixed her glance on me.
‘What do you think, Lewis?’
After a pause I replied, turning to Roger: ‘It’s a slight risk. But I fancy it’s probably time to take the offensive.’
I said it with every appearance of reason, of deliberate consideration, and perhaps as persuasively as I ever said anything.
Roger had been talking sense. Ellen was as gifted with sense as he was: but she was made for action, her judgement was always likely to leave her if she couldn’t act. I ought to have known that. Maybe, with half my mind, I did know. But my own judgement had gone, for reasons more complex than hers, and much more culpable. As I grew older, I had learned patience. The influence I had on people like Roger was partly because they thought me a tough and enduring man; but this wasn’t as natural as it seemed, nor so much all of a piece. I had been born spontaneous, excessively so, emotional, malleable. The stoical public face had become real enough, but the earlier nature went on underneath, and when the patience and control snapped, was still, in my middle-age, capable of breaking through. This was dangerous for me, and for those round me, since fits of temper, or spontaneous affection, or sheer whims, filtered through the public screen, and sounded as disciplined, as reliable, as some part of my character had now become, and as I should have liked the rest of it to be. It didn’t happen often, because I was on my guard: but occasionally it happened still, as on that evening. No one but Margaret knew it, but for days, since the dialogue with Rose, my temper had been smouldering. Like Ellen, I had gone into the pub craving for action. Unlike her, though, I didn’t sound as though I needed it. The craving came out through layers of patience, mixed with all the qualifications and devices of discipline, as though it were the reasonable, considered recommendation of a wise and prudent man.
