The Conscience of the Rich

by C. P. Snow

  With their usual repetitiveness they went over the practical reasons time and time again: underneath one heard the assertion of Mr March’s power, the claims of his affection, the anguish of his jealousies, the passion of his hopes, and in Charles, his claustrophobic desire to be free, his longing for release in love with Ann, his search for the good, his untameable impulse to find his own way, whatever its cost to others and himself. At least twice Charles was on the point of an outburst, such as he had struggled against. He did not let it come to light; he had mastered himself enough for that.

  At half past one, Mr March sent Katherine to bed, and a little later made a last appeal.

  ‘I have not alluded to the opinion of the family,’ he said.

  ‘You know they could not even begin to count,’ said Charles.

  ‘I must remind you that they will occupy a place in my regard as long as I live,’ said Mr March. ‘But I was aware you allowed yourself to entertain no feeling for them. You did not leave me any illusions on the point when you made known your intention not to continue for the time being at the Bar.’

  He was talking more quietly and affectionately than at any time that night.

  ‘You even had the civility to say,’ Mr March went on, ‘that you would pay considerably more attention to my wishes than to theirs. You expressed yourself as having some concern about me.’

  ‘I meant it,’ said Charles.

  ‘You did not pretend that your actions had no effect on my happiness.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I should like to inform you that if you carry out your present intention, it will have a considerable effect on my happiness.’

  Charles looked at Ann, and then at his father.

  ‘I wish it were not so,’ said Charles. ‘But I can’t alter my mind.’

  ‘You realize what it means for me?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Charles.

  Until that moment they might have been repeating their quarrel on the first Friday night I attended, the quarrel to which Mr March had just referred. All of a sudden it took a different turn. Immediately he heard Charles’ answer, Mr March got up from his chair. He said:

  ‘Then I must use my own means.’

  He said goodbye to Ann with his old courtesy, and even now there was a spark of the gallant in it. He asked me to see her into the car, and retired to his study with Charles. The door closed behind them.

  As Ann got ready to go, I saw that she was radiant, full of joy. I told her that I would stay in case Charles wanted someone to talk to. She pressed my hand and said: ‘And thank you for taking me to the concert. You can see what being kind lets you in for, can’t you?’

  She was happy beyond caring. The car was ready, and she walked down the steps, straight-backed, not hurrying. I switched on the lights in the drawing-room. It was brilliant after the dark study. The fire had gone out hours ago, and there was nothing but ashes in the grate. The cold, the bright light, made me shiver. I tried to read. Once, perhaps twice, I heard through the walls a voice raised in anger.

  An hour passed before Charles entered. He asked me for a cigarette, and had almost smoked it through before he spoke again. Then he said, in a level, neutral tone: ‘He’s revoked his promise to make me independent.’

  He went on: ‘I’ve told you before, he was going to make over some money to me when I was twenty-five. He’s just admitted that it has always been his intention.’

  I asked what Mr March had said. He had repeated, Charles replied, that up to that night he had been arranging to transfer a substantial sum to Charles on his twenty-fifth birthday – something like £40,000. He had now altered his mind. He was prepared to continue paying Charles his allowance. But he was determined to make no irrevocable gift.

  ‘I said that I might want to get married soon,’ said Charles. ‘He replied that he could not let that influence his judgement. He was not going to make me independent while I insisted on going in for misguided fooleries.’

  The lines in Charles’ face were cut deep.

  ‘I can understand,’ he said, ‘that he wants me to lead the life he’s imagined for me. I know I must be a desperate disappointment. You know, don’t you, that for a long time I’ve tried to soften it as much as I possibly could? You do know that? But I tell you, I shan’t find this easy to accept.’

  I felt a sense of danger which I could not have explained. I could not even have said which of them I was frightened for.

  Charles asked me: ‘Do you think he wants to stop me marrying?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Do you think he wants to stop me marrying Ann?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have chosen her for you,’ I said, after a pause. His insight was too keen for him not to have seen both of Mr March’s jealousies: but they were best left unspoken.

  ‘What shall you do?’ I said.

  Suddenly his heaviness and anger dropped away, and he gave a smile.

  ‘What do you think I shall do? Do you think I could stop now?’

  Part Three

  The Marriages

  20: The Coming-Out Dance

  Mr March did not have another talk in private with Charles that winter. In company they took on their old manner to each other, and no one outside guessed what had happened. Charles had begun to work for his first MB, but the news was not allowed to leak out, any more than that of his assignations with Ann.

  Meanwhile, tongues all over the March family had kept busy about Katherine and Francis Getliffe. Charles received a hint from Caroline’s son, Robert; Katherine from someone at her club; Herbert Getliffe became inquisitive about his brother. For a long time, despite false alarms, the gossip seemed not to have been taken seriously by Mr March’s brothers and sisters; certainly none of them had given him an official family warning.

  When the invitations were issued for the coming-out dance of one of the Herbert March girls, we wondered again how far the gossip had spread. For that family scarcely knew Francis Getliffe; and yet he had been invited. Katherine threshed out with Charles what this could mean. Was it an innuendo? It looked like it. But invitations had gone out all over the place; the Holfords had been sent one, even Herbert Getliffe through the Hart connexion, I myself. Francis’ might have been sent in perfect innocence and good nature.

  Katherine still remained suspicious. For days before the dance she and Charles re-examined each clue with their native subtlety, repetitiveness, realism, and psychological gusto. One thing alone was certain, said Charles, grinning at his own expense: that for once his passion for secrecy had been successful, with the result that Ronald Porson had been invited, obviously as the appropriate partner for Ann.

  This piece of consideration did not seem funny to Ann herself. Her pride rose at being labelled with the wrong man. It was her own fault. Porson was still pressing her, begging her to marry him; she had not yet brought herself to send him away. Nevertheless, when the Herbert Marches picked him out as her partner, she was angry with them for making her face her own bad behaviour.

  On the night itself, Herbert March’s larger drawing-room had been converted into a ballroom. We stood round the floor waiting for the band to begin. The shoulders of young women gleamed, the jewels of old ones sparkled, under the bright lights: loud March voices were carried over the floor: the Holfords, the Harts, the Getliffes, formed a group round their host, while his sister Caroline, standing elephantine in their midst, pulled up her lorgnon and through it surveyed the room.

  It was a room on the same scale as those at Bryanston Square, but brighter and more fashionable. The whole house was a little less massive, the decoration a little more modern, than Mr March’s, and the company less exclusively family than anywhere else in the March circle. One remembered Mr March’s stories about Herbert as the rebel of an older generation.

  Standing in front of a pot of geraniums, Mr March himself was telling Sir Philip an anecdote with obscure glee. It was the obscure glee that usually possessed him when someone committed a faux pas agai
nst the Jewish faith. ‘The new parson from the church round the corner paid me a visit the other day,’ said Mr March. ‘I thought it was uncommonly civil of him, but I was slightly surprised to have to entertain anyone of his persuasion. The last parson I was obliged to talk to descended from the ship at Honolulu when I was going round the world in ’88. He was an extremely boring fellow. Well, as soon as I decently could, I asked this one why he had given me the pleasure of his company. And he had an unfortunate stammer, but gradually it emerged that he wanted a contribution for his Easter offering. So I said, I should like to be informed if you still pray on certain occasions for Jews, Turks, and other infidels. He had to admit that he did. I replied that being a Jew I might be excused for finding the phrase a little invidious, and I couldn’t make a donation for his present purposes. But I didn’t want to embarrass him because he’d chosen an unfortunate occasion. So I said: “Come again at Christmas. We’ve got some common ground, you know. I’ll give you something then.”’

  Just then Caroline’s son Robert brought Ann to be introduced to Sir Philip. As usual, she was one of the smartest women in the room; as usual, she stayed quiet, let Sir Philip and Robert talk, got over her shyness just enough to put in a question. Mr March broke in: ‘This is the first time I have seen you since you were good enough to come to my house after a concert, which you possibly remember.’

  ‘Yes, Mr March,’ said Ann.

  ‘She is rather competed for, Uncle Leonard,’ said Robert. He was a middle-aged man, bald, with a face more predatory than any other of the Marches – predatory but not clever. As soon as he spoke, Mr March resented his flirtatious air; and Mr March’s own manner became more formidable and at the same time more intimate.

  ‘I am well aware that it would be astonishing if she had time to spare for elderly acquaintances,’ he said brusquely and, ignoring Robert, turned to Ann. ‘I take it that my son Charles has been lucky enough to secure a certain fraction of your leisure.’

  ‘I’ve seen him quite often,’ she said.

  ‘I assumed that must be so.’

  Then the music started up. Robert took her on to the floor. I went to find a partner. As the first hour passed and I danced with various March cousins and visitors, I noticed that Charles and Ann had danced together only once. Whoever they had as partners, they were each followed by a good many sharp, attentive eyes. She was striking-looking in any company. And to some there, particularly among the women, he was the most interesting of the younger Marches.

  Katherine and Francis, on the other hand, had decided that it was no use pretending to avoid each other. It seemed the sensible thing to take the polite average of dances together. As they did so, one could not fail to realize that some of the March aunts were watching them. Several times I saw Caroline’s lorgnon flash, and even to me she shoved in an enquiry, when we happened to visit the refreshment table at the same time.

  ‘How well do you know this young fellow Francis Getliffe?’ she said.

  I tried to pass it off, for she was too deaf to talk to quietly, and there were several people round us.

  ‘I want to know,’ said Caroline, ‘whether he’s engaged yet?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Why isn’t he? He must be getting on for thirty. What has he been doing with himself?’

  I smiled: it was easier than producing a non-committal shout.

  She went on with the interrogation. She had hoped that Francis might be entangled elsewhere. That hope extinguished, she was framing her plan of campaign.

  When I returned to the drawing-room, Ann was dancing with Albert Hart, and Charles with the cousin for whom the dance was being held, a good-looking, strapping girl. For the first time that night, I found Katherine free. She whispered at once, as we went on to the floor: ‘It’s slightly embarrassing being under inspection, isn’t it? You would have expected Francis to mind tremendously, wouldn’t you have expected him to? But he seems to be enjoying himself.’

  She was so happy, despite her anxiety, despite the prying eyes, that it was obvious how well – when she and Francis were together – the night was going. She went on: ‘You know, I wish Charles and Ann would decide what they want to happen. They’ve got to settle down some time, and it won’t get any easier. It’s preposterous that she should have this man Porson trailing after her tonight.’

  She looked up at me. ‘I think she enjoys it – am I being unfair? I expect I envy her, of course. Mind you, I know she’s made a colossal difference to Charles.

  Then she glanced across the room, where Francis was talking to Mr March.

  ‘But it is a superb party, don’t you think?’ she burst out. ‘Francis dances abominably, but I forgive him even that. It means that I’m nothing like so jealous when I see him dancing with other women. I can always console myself with how disappointed they must be when they get a fairly nice-looking young man for a partner – at least I think he’s fairly nice-looking – and he promptly insists on putting his foot on their toes.’

  She was bubbling with happiness.

  ‘It is a superb party, Lewis,’ she said. She was silent for a moment, and I saw that she was smiling.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I said.

  She chuckled outright.

  ‘I’ve remembered what I used to feel about the young men Charles brought to the house. I never believed that they could possibly want to see me. I thought they only came because they wanted to see Charles or needed a house to stay in when they were in London.’

  I was sorry when the dance ended; at that time, as I watched others happy in love, I was sometimes envious – but not of Katherine. It was difficult to begrudge her any luck that came her way.

  The next dance I watched by the side of Mr March and Sir Philip. Mr March was studying his dance programme before the band began.

  ‘Though why they find it necessary to issue programmes to the superannuated members of the party, I have never been able to understand,’ he said to me. ‘Possibly so that the superannuated can imbibe the names of these productions that your generation are accustomed to regard as tunes.’

  The band struck up, couples went on to the floor; Charles was dancing with Ann, Katherine with Francis. Mr March stopped talking; he let his programme swing by the pencil; he watched them. Katherine was smiling into Francis’ face; Charles and Ann were dancing without speaking.

  Philip also was watching.

  ‘How many times,’ he asked Mr March, ‘has Katherine been to the regular dance this year?’

  ‘She has missed occasionally.’

  ‘How many times has she been?’

  ‘I can’t be expected to recollect particulars of her attendance,’ said Mr March.

  Philip went on asking; Mr March fidgeted with his programme and gave irascible replies. If he had been suppressing his knowledge about Katherine and Francis, he could do so no longer.

  Philip’s glance followed Katherine round the room. But even as he answered the questions, Mr March did not look in her direction. His expression was fixed and anxious: he had eyes for no one but his son.

  ‘I should like you to meet Ronald Porson,’ Ann said, as shortly afterwards I delivered a girl to her partner in the corner of the room. Ann, sitting with Porson close by, smiled at both him and me, making herself act as though this was a casual night out.

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Porson. ‘Don’t you go about picking up the pieces after Getliffe? I suppose I oughtn’t to speak to you about your boss–’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been with him since I came to London,’ I said.

  ‘You have my blessing,’ said Porson. ‘And by God you’ll need it.’

  His voice was loud, his manner hearty and assertive, though tonight he was preoccupied. He kept looking at Ann, but his eyes flickered nervously away, if he caught hers. His appearance surprised me after what I had heard; he was a short, plethoric man with a ruddy face. His left cheek often broke into a twitch which, instead of putting one off, happened to
make his expression companionable and humorous.

  The room had cleared for an interval, and Charles was almost alone on the floor. Several times Ann’s attention strayed to him, and then she said to Porson: ‘Have you ever met Charles March, by any chance? He’s the nephew of your host tonight. You’ve heard me talk about him. Perhaps you ought to be introduced.’

  ‘I might as well,’ said Porson.

  He did not glance at Charles; I was sure that he had already identified him. Ann beckoned to Charles: Porson went on talking to me as he came up. It was not until they shook hands that Porson raised his eyes and looked into Charles’ face.

  ‘Are you enjoying this do tonight?’ he said. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

  For a moment Charles did not answer. Before he spoke, Ann had turned to him. ‘Ronald is thinking of starting a practice in London,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him that before he makes up his mind he really must get some up-to-date advice. He happens to know Getliffe, I mean Herbert Getliffe, quite well. He doesn’t think much of him, but I don’t see that ought to matter: he might be useful.’

  ‘Getliffe’s not gone far enough,’ said Ronald. ‘I dislike crawling unless it’s worth while.’

  ‘It can’t do any harm.’ Ann looked at Charles.

  ‘It can’t do any harm,’ said Charles. ‘Isn’t that the point? I know it’s an intolerable nuisance, going to people for this kind of purpose–’

  ‘I dislike crawling in any case,’ said Ronald. ‘Particularly to men I don’t care for and whose ability I despise.’

  ‘He’s climbing pretty fast, isn’t he?’ Ann was asking me.

  ‘There are private reasons, which you know enough to guess,’ Ronald said to her, ‘which make it certain that, before I asked Getliffe for a favour, I’d sooner sweep the streets.’