by C. P. Snow
We had finished the pheasant. Philip and Mr March put politics aside, and began talking about one of their nieces by marriage, who was reported to be living apart from her husband. She had always possessed a reputation for good looks: ‘the best-looking girl in the family, Herbert said, though I never knew why he was specially competent to judge,’ said Mr March. She had stayed unmarried until she was over thirty.
She was said to have had a good many offers, ‘but no one ever established where they came from,’ said Mr March. ‘The only reason I believed in them was that Hannah didn’t.’ And then, to everyone’s surprise, she had married someone quite poor, unattractive and undistinguished. ‘She married him,’ Philip announced, ‘because he was the only man who didn’t look when she was getting over a stile.’ His grin was caustic; but his dignity had broken for a moment, and there was a randy glitter in his eyes.
They were arguing about what had gone wrong with the marriage, when their sister Caroline, who was deaf, suddenly caught a word and said: ‘Were you talking about Charles?’ Mr March shook his head, but she went on: ‘I hope he realizes he’s making an ass of himself. Albert Hart won’t hear of his giving up the Bar.’
‘It’s all unsettled, there’s nothing whatever to report,’ said Mr March quickly.
Mr March had been compelled to speak loudly, even for a March, to make her understand. His voice silenced everyone else, and the entire table heard Caroline’s next question.
‘Why is it unsettled? Why has he taken to bees in his bonnet just when he might be becoming some use in the world?’
‘The whole matter’s been exaggerated,’ said Mr March. ‘Albert always was given to premature discussion–’
‘What’s this? What’s this?’ said Philip.
‘I mentioned it to you. She’s not made a discovery. I mentioned that my son Charles was going through a period of not being entirely satisfied with his progress at the Bar. Nothing has been concealed.’
Katherine was looking at Charles with a frown of distress. ‘I expect he’s got over it now. You’re all serene, aren’t you, Charles?’ Philip asked down the table: his tone was dry but friendly.
‘I’m quite happy, Uncle Philip.’
‘You’re getting down to it properly now, aren’t you?’
‘The whole matter’s been grossly exaggerated,’ Mr March broke in, rapidly, as though signalling to Charles.
‘I expect I can take it that your father’s right,’ said Philip.
There was a pause.
‘I’m sorry. I should like to agree. But you’d find out sooner or later. It’s no use my pretending that I shall work at the Bar.’
‘What’s behind all this? They tell me you’ve made a good start. What’s the matter with you?’
Charles hesitated again.
‘You’ve got one nephew at the Bar, Uncle Philip.’ Charles looked at Robert. ‘Do you want all your nephews there too? Cutting each other’s throats–’
He seemed to be passing it off casually, his tone was light; but Caroline, who was watching his face without hearing the words, broke out: ‘I didn’t mean to turn you into a board meeting. This comes of being so abominably deaf. Leonard, do you remember the day when Hannah thought I was deafer than I am?’
We went back to our pudding. Katherine had flushed: Charles smiled at her, but did not speak. He stopped the footman from filling his glass again. Most of us, after the questions ceased, had been glad of another drink, including Francis, who had been putting down his wine unobtrusively but steadily since dinner began.
The table became noisier than at any time that evening; the interruption seemed over; Charles’ neighbours were laughing as he talked.
Florence Simon plucked at my sleeve. She was a woman of thirty, with abstracted brown eyes and a long sharp nose; all through dinner I had got nowhere with her; whatever I said, she had been vague and shy. Now her eyes were bright, she had thought of something to say.
‘I wish you’d been at the dinner last Friday. It was much more interesting then.’
‘Was it?’ I said.
‘Oh, we had some really good general conversation,’ said Florence Simon. She relapsed into silence, giving me a kind, judicious, and contented smile.
7: Two Kinds of Anger
By half past eleven Katherine could speak to Charles at last. She had just said some goodbyes, and only Francis and I were left with them in the drawing-room.
‘It was atrociously bad luck,’ she burst out.
‘I was glad it didn’t go on any longer,’ said Charles.
‘It must have been intolerable,’ she cried.
‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘I was just coming to the state when I could hear my own voice getting rougher.’
‘The family have never heard anyone put Uncle Philip off before.’
‘I thought he was perfectly good-tempered,’ Charles replied. He was being matter-of-fact in the face of the excitement. ‘He’s merely used to being told what he wants to know.’
‘He’s still talking to Mr L in his study. There are several of them still there, you know,’ she went on.
‘Didn’t you expect that?’ Charles smiled at her.
‘It’s absolutely maddening,’ she broke out again, ‘this fluke happening just when Mr L was ready to accept it.’
Charles was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘I’m not certain that he was.’
‘You told me so,’ said Katherine. ‘But still – you’re going to have a foul time. I wish to God I could help.’
She went on: ‘He thinks the world of Uncle Philip, of course. Did you notice that he pretended to have told him? He’d obviously just muttered “my son Charles is mumpish” and was hoping that nobody would notice that you never appeared in court–’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ said Francis. His voice was a little thick. In his embarrassment at dinner, he had been drinking more than the rest of us; now, when he wanted to be useful and protective, he looked as though the light was dazzling him.
Charles shook his head and said no.
‘You’re sure?’ said Francis, trying to speak with his usual crispness. Again Charles said no.
‘In that case,’ said Francis, ‘it might be wiser if the rest of us left you to it.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Charles. ‘I’d rather Mr L found you all here.’
For a second it sounded as if he were trying to avoid a scene. Listening to his tone, I suddenly felt that that was the opposite of the truth.
He went on speaking to Francis. Katherine smiled at them anxiously, then turned to me.
‘By the way, according to your theory, the mass of people at dinner must have sounded very forbidding,’ she said. ‘Did you find a few who made it tolerable? When you actually arrived?’
The question was incomprehensible, and yet she was clearly expecting me to understand. ‘Your theory’: I could not imagine what she meant.
‘Don’t you remember,’ she said, ‘saying that to me the first time we met? When I was being shunted off to the Jewish dance. I won’t swear to the actual words, but I’m pretty certain they’re nearly right. I thought over them a good many times afterwards, you see. I wondered whether you meant to take me down a peg or two for being too superior.’
It was the sort of attentive memory, the sort of extravagant thin-skinnedness, that I should have become accustomed to; but a new example still surprised me just as much.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Katherine, ‘I decided that you probably didn’t mean that.’
Then Mr March entered. He went straight to Charles, paying no attention to the rest of us: he stood in front of Charles’ chair.
‘Now you see what you’re responsible for,’ he said. Charles got up.
‘You know how sorry I am that you’re involved, Mr L,’ Charles said.
‘I haven’t got time to speculate whether you’re sorry or not. I’ve just been listening to my brothers telling me that you’re making a fool of yourself. As t
hough I wasn’t perfectly aware of it already. I expressed exactly the same point of view myself but unfortunately I haven’t succeeded in making much impression on you.’
‘No one could have done more than you did.’
‘A great many people could have done enormously more. Do you think my father listened to Herbert when he got up to his monkey tricks and wanted to study music? An astonishingly bad musician he would have made if you can judge by his singing in the drawing-room when we were children. Hannah said that he was only asked to sing because he was the youngest child. Anyone else would have done enormously more. In any case, I never gave my permission as you appear to have assumed. You may have thought the matter was closed, but that doesn’t affect the issue.’
‘It’s no good reopening it, Mr L. I’m sorry.’
‘Certainly it’s some good reopening it. After tonight, I haven’t any option.’
Charles suddenly broke out: ‘You admit that tonight is making the difference?’
‘I never allowed you to think that the matter was closed. But in addition to that, I don’t propose to ignore–’
‘The position is this: when we were left to ourselves, you disapproved of what I wanted and you brought up every fair argument there was. If it had been possible, you know that I should have given way. Now other people are taking a hand. I know what they mean to you, but I don’t recognize their claim to interfere. Do you think I can possibly do for them what I wouldn’t do for you alone?’
‘You talk about them as if they were strangers. They’re treated better by an outsider who’s just married into us, like that abominable woman who married your cousin Alfred. They’re your family–’
‘They’ve no right to affect my life.’
‘I won’t have the family dismissed as strangers.’
‘I should feel more justified in going against your wishes – now you’ve been influenced by them,’ said Charles, ‘than when you were speaking for yourself.’ They were standing close together. There came a cough, and to my astonishment Francis began to speak.
‘Will you forgive me for saying something, Mr March?’ His face was pallid under the sunburn; there was a film of sweat on his forehead. But he managed to make himself speak soberly: the words came out strained, uncomfortable, but positive.
Mr March, who had been totally indifferent to his presence or mine, did not notice anything unusual. With a mixture of irritableness and courtesy, Mr March said: ‘My dear fellow, I’m always glad to hear your observations.’
‘I assure you,’ said Francis, uttering with care, ‘that Charles would have gone further to meet your wishes than for any other reason. I completely agree with you that he’s wrong to give up the Bar. I think it’s sheer nonsense. I’ve told him so. I’ve argued with him since I first heard about it. But I haven’t got him to change his mind. The only argument which would make him think twice was about the effect on yourself.’
Mr March regarded him with an expression that dubiously lightened; the frown of anger had become puzzled, and Mr March said, his voice more subdued than since he entered the room: ‘That was civil of him, anyway.’
He went on: ‘I don’t know what’s happening to the family. My generation weren’t a patch on my father’s. And as for yours, there’s not one of you who’ll get a couple of inches in the obituary column. My Uncle Henry said that just before he died in ’27, and all I could reply was “After all, you can say this for them. They don’t drink, and they don’t womanize.”’
Mr March spoke straight to Charles:
‘You might be the only chance of rescuing them from mediocrity. There’s always been a consensus of opinion that you wouldn’t disgrace yourself at the Bar. Ever since your preparatory schoolmaster said you had a legal head: though he was wrong in his prognostications about all your cousins. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the most unsatisfactory children in the whole family. First your sister made her regrettable marriage. Of her there’s nothing good to report. Then you choose to behave in this fashion. And neither you nor your sister Katherine have ever made any attempt to fit into the life of the people round you. You’ve always been utterly unsociable. You’ve never taken the part everyone wanted you to take. You’ve not had the slightest consideration for what the family thinks of me. You wouldn’t cross the road to keep me in good repute. I’ve been more criticized about my children than anyone in the family since 1902, the time Justin’s daughter married out of the faith. Justin had a worse time than anyone. He couldn’t bear to inspect the wedding presents. It was always rumoured that he sent some secretly himself to cover up a few of the gaps. Since Justin, no one has been disapproved of as I have.’
Mr March sat down, in an armchair close to one of the side tables. For a second, I thought the quarrel was over. Then Charles said: ‘I wish it weren’t so, for your sake.’
Charles had spoken simply and with feeling: in reply, Mr March flushed to a depth of anger he had not reached that night. He clutched at the arm of his chair as he leant forward; in doing so, he swept off an ashtray from the little table. The rug was shot with cigarette-stubs and match-ends. Charles bent to clear them.
‘Don’t pick them up,’ Mr March shouted. Charles replaced the ashtray, and put one or two stubs in it.
‘Don’t pick them up, I tell you,’ Mr March cried with such an increase of rage that Charles hesitated.
‘I refuse to have you perform duties for my sake. I refuse to listen to you expressing polite regrets for my sake. You appear to consider yourself completely separate from me in all respects. I am not prepared to tolerate that attitude.’
‘What do you mean?’ Charles’ voice had become angry and hard.
‘I am not prepared to tolerate your attitude that you can dissociate yourself from me in all your concerns. Even if I survive criticism from the family on your account, that isn’t to admit that you’ve separated yourself from me.’
‘I come to you for advice,’ said Charles.
‘Advice! You can go to the family lawyer for advice. Though I never knew why we’ve stood a fellow so long-winded as Morris for so long,’ cried Mr March. ‘I’m not prepared to be treated as a minor variety of family lawyer by my son. I shall have to consider taking actions that will make that clear.’
Charles broke out: ‘Do you imagine for a moment that you can coerce me back to the law?’
Mr March said: ‘I do not propose to let you abandon yourself to your own devices.’
Everyone was surprised by the calm, ambiguous answer and by Mr March’s expression. As Charles’ face darkened, Mr March looked almost placid. He seemed something like triumphant, from the instant he evoked an outburst as angry as his own. He went on quietly:
‘I want something for you. I wish I could know that you’ll get something that I’ve always wanted for you.’ He checked himself. Abruptly he broke off; be looked round at us as though there had been no disagreement whatever, and began an anecdote about a Friday night years before.
Part Two
Father and Son
8: The Cost of Help
For some time after the quarrel I did not get a clear account of Mr March’s behaviour. According to Katherine, he was so depressed that he stopped grumbling; he listened to criticisms from his brothers and sisters, but even these he did not pass on. Weeks went by before he began to greet Charles at meals with: ‘If you’re determined to persist in your misguided notions, what alternative proposal have you to offer?’ One afternoon, when I was in the drawing-room, Mr March burst in after his daily visit to the club and cried: ‘I’m being persecuted on account of my son’s fandango.’ That was all I heard directly. When I dined with them, there were times when he seemed melancholy, but his level of spirits was so high that I could not be sure. One day Charles mentioned to me that he thought Mr March had begun to worry about Katherine. I fancied that I could recall the signs.
As for Charles himself, none of his family had any idea what he was intending, or whether he was intending an
ything at all. He put on a front of cheerfulness and good temper in his father’s presence. His days had become as lazy as Katherine’s. He stayed in bed till midday, talked to her most afternoons, went dancing at night. Many of his acquaintances thought, just as he had predicted, that he was settling down to the life of a rich and idle young man.
They should have watched his manner as he set me going on my career.
By the early summer I still had had nothing like a serious case, and I was getting worn down with anxiety. Then Charles took charge of my affairs. He handled them with astuteness and nerve. He risked snubs, which he could not have done on his own behalf, and got me invited to the famous June party at the Holfords’. At the same time he approached Albert Hart and through him met the solicitors who sent Hart the majority of his work. One of them was glad to oblige Philip March’s nephew, and said he would like to meet me; another, one of the best-known Jewish solicitors in London, promised to be present at the Holfords’ party. There were other skeins, concealed from me, in Charles’ plans. They took up his entire attention. As he devoted himself to them, Charles was continuously angry with me.
A few minutes before the Holfords’ party, where he planned for me to make a good impression, there was an edge to his voice. I was sitting in his bedroom at Bryanston Square while he knotted his white tie in front of the mirror. I mentioned a story of Charles’ grandfather that Mr March had just told me – ‘he must have been a very able man,’ I said.
‘Obviously he must have been,’ said Charles. He was still looking into the mirror, smoothing down his thick, fair, wiry hair. ‘But he didn’t do so much after all. He was a rather successful banker. And acquired the position that a rather successful banker could in that period, if he happened to be a competent man. Don’t you agree?’
