by C. P. Snow
But I was frightened, because he would not talk about the Note. I tried to get him to.
We had been intimate so long: not thinking it out as a technique to soften him, but just because I did not want to leave him quite alone, I confided something about my own marriage – something I had not told him before, nor anyone else. His eyes became sharp with insight, he gave me the support with which he had never failed me. But I did not get any other response.
At last I said: ‘Charles, will you let me ask you about something else?’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t want to add to your trouble. You know that.’
‘I know that,’ he said.
‘Can you tell me what you propose to do? About stopping this paper?’
There was a silence.
‘No,’ he said. His eyes were steady. He went on: ‘I don’t know. It’s no use talking about it.’
The words were slow, dragged out. Looking at him, I believed he had spoken the precise truth. What his decision would be, he just did not know. But he was by himself, and nothing that anyone said could affect it now.
We went on talking. We even talked politics. I knew by his tone, what I already knew, that whatever he chose, politics would not move him either way.
As I sat with him, I believed that, whatever he chose, he was asking himself – I remembered, with a trace of superstition, the night in Bryanston Square after I had taken Ann to the concert – how much he could bear to dominate another. He had gone through too much in order to be free himself: it was harder for him to choose that she should not be.
Late that night I happened to see him again. I had been dining in Dolphin Square, and was walking home along the Embankment in the moonlight. I saw Charles coming very slowly towards me on the opposite side of the road. His head was bent, he was wearing no overcoat or hat; he might have been out at a case. As he came nearer, he did not look up. Soon I could see his face in the bright moonlight: I did not cross the road, I did not say good night.
41: Family Gathering
Three days later, I was surprised to be rung up by Charles. He told me that Katherine, her children, and Francis had arrived the evening before at Bryanston Square. I was surprised again; it was only a month since the baby was born; then I realized from Charles’ tone that they had come for a purpose.
They were pressing him to go to Bryanston Square for tea that afternoon: would I pick him up and go with him?
As soon as I saw him, I thought he looked transformed. He was still pale and tired: he was tired but not restless, tired but easy, as though he had just finished playing a game.
At once he asked me, in a relaxed, affectionate voice: ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but just tell me again exactly what Ann said to you, will you, Lewis?’
At that moment I knew he had made up his mind.
When I had finished, he was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, almost as though he were making fun of her: ‘I suppose she is much braver than you or me, isn’t she? I’ve always thought she was, haven’t you? Yet she didn’t want to tell it me herself. She was glad to get out of that.’
He smiled.
‘She’s been incomparably nearer to me than any other human being ever has, or could be again,’ he said. ‘She thinks I know her. But I was astonished when she wanted to get out of telling me. Sometimes I think that I don’t know her at all.’
On the way to Bryanston Square he asked me if I had ever felt the same, if I had ever felt that someone I knew and loved had for the moment become a stranger – utterly mysterious, utterly unknown. It was like the talks we used to have when we were younger.
Katherine and Francis were waiting in the drawing-room. Charles embraced his sister, held her in his arms, asked about the child. She told him how the delivery had been quick and easy. Charles showed a doctor’s interest as he questioned her. She replied with zest; she was physically happier, and more unreticent, than anyone there. She looked blooming with health, radiant as though she had just come from a holiday. The next hour was preying on her mind, she was heavy-hearted, but still she gave out happiness. It set her apart from Charles, or even from her husband, in whom one could see already the signs of strain.
Charles said: ‘I must run up and see Ann for five minutes.’
‘I suppose,’ said Francis, ‘that she can’t come down for tea?’
‘It wouldn’t be a good idea,’ said Charles. ‘Don’t you admit that it wouldn’t be a good idea?’
There was a sarcastic edge to his tone, and Francis flushed. When Charles had gone, Francis said to me: ‘This is intolerable whatever happens.’
He had become more than ever used to getting his own way: but his feelings had stayed delicate. He was still colouring from Charles’ snub, and a vein showed in his forehead. He would go through with what he had come to say, just as he went through with any job he set himself. But it cost him an effort which would have deterred a good many of us.
Katherine wanted to begin talking of Charles and Ann, but he stopped her. ‘We shall have enough of it soon,’ he said. I asked about his work; he was trying a major problem, but had struck a snag. We exchanged some college gossip.
We were beginning tea when Charles came down.
‘How is Ann now?’ said Francis, with a difficult friendliness.
‘She’ll be able to leave here next week,’ said Charles.
‘Good work,’ said Francis.
There was a pause. A spoon tinkled in a saucer.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Francis, ‘it was about her, of course, that we wanted to talk.’
‘Yes,’ said Charles. His eyes gleamed.
‘I think we’re bound to ask you,’ Francis went on, ‘what the present position is about the Note. Has Ann stopped that affair?’
Charles answered: ‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute.’
‘What is the position then?’ said Katherine.
‘I imagine it’s exactly the same as when she fell ill,’ Charles said.
‘You mean, everything’s coming down on our heads, that’s what you mean, don’t you?’ she cried.
Francis asked: ‘I take it we’re right to gather that the only certain way of stopping this business is to get the Note suppressed?’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Charles.
‘And we’re right to gather that it’s in Ann’s power to do it?’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Charles.
‘She would do it if you told her?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Have you tried?’
For the first time, Charles did not answer immediately. He might have been considering telling them that by now the choice was his. At last he just said: ‘No.’
‘We must ask you to.’ Francis’ temper was rising. ‘You ought to know that I dislike interfering, but this is too serious to let go by. We must ask you to tell her.’
‘I absolutely agree with Francis,’ said Katherine loudly. ‘It would be gross to interfere between you and Ann, but this is an occasion which we simply can’t shut our eyes to, surely you admit that? We must ask you to tell her.’
Charles’ voice was quiet, level, self-possessed after theirs.
‘I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so.’
He looked from one set face to the other. Unexpectedly he smiled.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You know how fond I am of both of you. Nothing will affect that, so far as I am concerned, don’t you know that? I would do anything for you both.’
‘Then for God’s sake do this,’ cried Katherine.
Charles shook his head. ‘I gave you my answer more unpleasantly than I ought to have done. But it’s still my answer.’
Francis tried to control himself, to subdue his tone in response to Charles’. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we can’t leave it there. You know, Charles, I feel responsible to some extent. If it hadn’t been for my brother Herbert, we might never have got into this mess. He seems to have covered his tra
cks somehow–’
‘You needn’t worry about Herbert,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Francis.
‘Quite sure,’ I said. ‘He’s still got a chance of finishing up as a judge.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised by anything he did. Not even that,’ said Francis. He turned to Charles again. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you understand that we can’t leave it there.’
‘I know it’s difficult for you. And I’m sorry.’
Francis went on: ‘I want to make one point clear. Before I go on. We’re not prejudiced by Ann’s political motives you know that, but I want to tell you. I think she over-simplifies it all: but if it comes to two sides, we are on the same side as she is. It’s the only side one could possibly be on. I’m also prepared to admit that the Note has its uses. By and large it’s making a contribution. I should just say that it’s not such a major contribution – it’s not such a major contribution that she’s justified in driving on whoever is getting hurt. It is certainly not worth disgracing your family and breaking up Mr L.’
‘You must agree with that,’ said Katherine. Her voice was angry and menacing: unlike Francis, she was making no attempt to conciliate Charles. ‘Anyone in their senses must agree with that.’
‘I agree with you politically much more than I do with Ann,’ said Charles to Francis. ‘In fact, I’ve always been less committed than you, don’t you realize that?’
It was true. Of us in that room, Francis was the furthest to the left. ‘I’m much more sceptical than you, I suspect,’ said Charles, ‘about what Ann and her friends can possibly achieve. You think this paper of theirs has some value. I must say I doubt it. It’s different for her. She doesn’t doubt it in the slightest. If you’re going to lead that kind of life, you must believe from the start that every little action is important–’
Katherine was frowning, but Francis nodded his head.
‘For myself,’ said Charles, ‘I don’t think any of that matters.’
‘What does matter?’ said Katherine.
‘Simply that this is something Ann believes in. The suggestion is that I should force her to betray it.’
‘You must be mad,’ said Katherine. ‘You can’t give us a better reason than that for getting Uncle Philip into the newspapers?’
‘What reason would you like me to give?’
‘It’s not good enough,’ said Francis.
‘It won’t do her any harm to be forced,’ said Katherine. ‘If you’d done more of it earlier, this would never have happened. Don’t you see that you’ve been wrong since the day you met her?’
‘No,’ said Charles. ‘I don’t see that.’
‘We mustn’t criticize your marriage,’ said Francis.
Katherine interrupted him: ‘If your marriage is worth anything at all, this can’t make any difference. Don’t you see that you can’t afford to be too considerate? And we can’t afford to let you be. Could anyone in the world think the reason you’ve given is enough excuse for ruining Mr L’s peace of mind for the rest of his life?’
Charles said: ‘There was a time when you were prepared to take a risk like that.’ Katherine looked at him. Her bitter indignation lessened, for he had spoken, for the first time that afternoon, with sadness.
‘There was a time,’ he repeated, ‘when you were prepared to take a risk like that. And that time I was on your side, you know.’
‘It was the easy side for you.’ Her tone was stern and accusing again.
‘I should have taken your side whether it was easy or hard,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve always loved you, don’t you know that?’
Katherine was near to tears. He had spoken with a warmth and freedom such as she had scarcely heard. She said: ‘I can’t take your side now. I can’t take your side.’
She burst out: ‘Don’t you see that I can’t? Do you think that I don’t know you at all? You’ve never forgiven Mr L for being in power over you. You’ve never forgiven him for trying to stop your marriage. And he was absolutely right. Since you married this woman, you’ve never cared for the rest of us. You’ve been ready to destroy everything in the family because of her. You’re not sorry now, are you? You’re not sorry for anything you’ve done? I believe you’re glad.’
Charles had stood up. He leant by the fireplace and spoke with a fierce release of energy:
‘I repeat, you were ready to do all these things to marry Francis. I would have done anything on earth to help you. I would still.’
‘You won’t say this one word which would cost you nothing,’ Katherine cried furiously. ‘You won’t stop your wife finishing off a piece of wickedness she should never have thought of. I know you won’t think twice about what this means for Mr L. You’ve always been capable of being cruel. But is it possible for you to think twice of what it means to us?’
‘Yes,’ said Francis. ‘Can you bring yourself to do that?’
Charles replied: ‘You have said some hard things of me. Many of them are true. You have said hard things of Ann. Those you should have kept to yourselves. I won’t trouble to tell you how untrue they are. Are you sure that in all this concern of yours you’re not thinking of your own convenience? Are you sure that your motives are as pure as you seem to think? It will be a nuisance for you to have a scandal in the family. Aren’t you both so comfortable that you’d like to prevent that – whatever else is lost in the process?’
Francis and Katherine sat silent, looking up at him as he stood. Francis, who in much of the quarrel had shown sympathy, was dark with anger, the vein prominent in his forehead. Katherine said, as a last resort: ‘You won’t trust us. Perhaps you’ll trust Lewis. He’s got nothing at stake. Lewis, will you tell him what you think?’
They all waited for me.
I said: ‘I’ve already said what I think – to Ann.’
‘What did you say?’ cried Katherine.
‘I said she ought to go to Charles and tell him she wanted to call it off.’
I spoke directly to Charles: ‘I should like to ask you something. Will you and Ann talk the whole matter over for the last time?’
He smiled at me and said, without hesitation: ‘No, Lewis.’ He added, for my benefit alone: ‘She did that through you.’
Katherine and Francis exchanged a glance. Francis said: ‘There it is. It’s no use going on. But we must say this. If Ann doesn’t stop this business, we shan’t be able to meet her. Obviously, we shan’t want to create any embarrassment. If we meet socially, we shall put a decent face on it. But we shall not be able to meet her in private.’
‘You know that must include me,’ said Charles.
‘I was afraid you would take it that way,’ said Francis.
Charles said: ‘There’s no other way to take it.’
‘No,’ said Francis.
‘I think you are being just,’ Charles said in a level and passionless voice. ‘All I can say is this: from you both I hoped for something different from justice. Once, if I had been in your place, I should have done as you are doing. I think perhaps I shouldn’t now.’
He added: ‘It is hard to lose you. It always will be.’
His energy had ebbed away for a moment.
He sat down. We made some kind of conversation. Ten minutes passed before Mr March came in.
‘I should be obliged,’ he said, ‘if I could have a word with my daughter.’
‘I’m afraid that I’ve given her my answer,’ said Charles.
42: An Answer
‘I assumed that you knew what she was asking me,’ said Charles. ‘I’m afraid that I’ve given her my answer.’
He had risen as Mr March came in, and they stood face to face by the window, away from the fireplace and the small tea-table, round which the rest of us were still sitting. They stood face to face, Charles some inches taller than his father, his hair catching the sunlight as it had done years before in the examination hall. Against him his father stood, his head less erect, his whole bearing in some way unprepared.
‘You’ll hear it from Katherine as soon as I’ve gone. Don’t you admit that you will? Isn’t it better for me to tell you myself?’
‘I refuse to hear anything further until your wife has completely recovered,’ said Mr March. ‘I don’t regard you as in a fit state to make a decision.’
‘I should make the same decision whether she’s ill or well,’ said Charles. ‘I shan’t change my mind.’
‘What is it?’ said Mr March, in despair.
‘You don’t want me to say much, do you? Katherine has heard it all. All I need say is that, now she’s heard it, she and Francis don’t wish to meet me again.’
‘I knew it,’ said Mr March. They looked at each other.
‘You can endure being lonely?’ Mr March said at last, still in a subdued voice.
‘I can endure that kind of loneliness.’
‘Then it’s useless to ask you to consider mine.’
Charles did not reply at once, and Mr March for the first time raised his voice.
‘It’s useless to ask you to consider my loneliness. I suppose I had better be prepared to take the only steps which are open to me.’
‘I’m afraid that is for you to decide.’
‘You know,’ cried Mr March, ‘I’m not telling you anything original. You know the position you are placing me in. You’re forcing me to deprive myself of my son.’
We each knew that this quarrel was different from those in the past. Always before, Mr March had a power over his son. Now it had gone. Mr March knew: he could not admit it, and his anger rose at random, wildly, without aim.
‘You’re forcing me,’ he shouted, ‘to deprive myself of my son. If this outrage happens’ – he was clinging to a last vestige of hope – ‘if this outrage happens, I shall be compelled to take a step which you will recognize.’
‘It won’t matter to me, don’t you realize that?’
‘Nothing that I possess will come to you. You will be compelled to recognize what you’ve done after my death,’ said Mr March.
