by C. P. Snow
‘That is absolutely true,’ Morcom said quietly to Eden in a level, reasonable tone. ‘And Passant won’t like to bring this out himself, but it puts him in a difficult position: if he didn’t try to act, no one would.’
‘It’s very unfortunate for Cotery, of course,’ said Eden. ‘I quite see that. But you can’t consider, Morcom, can you, that Passant is going the right way about it? It only raises opposition when you try to rush people off their feet.’
‘I rather agree,’ said Morcom. ‘In fact, I told Passant my opinion a couple of nights ago. It was the same as yours.’
‘I’m glad of that,’ said Eden. ‘Because I know that Passant thinks that when we get older we like to take the course of least resistance. There’s something in it, I’m afraid, there’s something in it. But he can’t hold that against you. You see, Passant,’ he went on, ‘we’re all agreed that it’s very unfortunate for Cotery. That doesn’t mean, though, that we want to see you do something hasty. After all, there’s plenty of time. This is a bit of a setback for him, but he’s a bright young chap. With patience, he’s bound to make good in the end.’
‘He’s twenty,’ said George. ‘He’s just the age when a man is desperate without something ahead. You can’t tell a man to wait years at that age.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Eden.
‘I can’t bring myself to recommend patience,’ said George, ‘when it’s someone else who has to exercise it.’
George was straining to keep his temper down, and Eden’s smile had become perfunctory.
‘So you intend to make a gesture,’ said Eden. ‘I’ve always found that most gestures do more harm than good.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t regard this as a gesture,’ said George.
Eden frowned, paused, and went on: ‘There is another point, Passant. I didn’t particularly want to make it. And I don’t want to lay too much emphasis on it. But if you go ahead, it might conceivably raise some personal difficulties for Howard and myself – since we are, in a way, connected with you.’
‘They suggested this morning that you were responsible, I suppose?’ George cried.
‘I shouldn’t say that was actually suggested, should you, Howard?’ said Eden.
‘In any case,’ said George, ‘I consider they were using an intolerably unfair weapon in approaching you.’
‘I think perhaps they were,’ said Eden. ‘I think perhaps they were. But that doesn’t affect the fact.’
‘If we were all strictly fair, George,’ said Martineau, ‘not much information would get round, would it?’
George asked Eden: ‘Did you make these people realise that I was acting as a private person?’
‘My dear Passant, you ought to know that one can’t draw these distinctions. If you – not to put too fine a point on it – choose to make a fool of yourself among some influential people, then Howard and I will come in for a share of the blame.’
‘I can draw these distinctions,’ said George, ‘and, if you will authorise me, I can make them extremely clear to these – to your sources of information.’
‘That would only add to the mischief,’ said Eden.
There was quiet for a moment. Then George said: ‘I shall have to ask you a definite question. You are not implying, Mr Eden, that this action of mine cuts across my obligations to the firm?’
‘I don’t intend to discuss it in those terms,’ said Eden. ‘I’ve been talking in a purely friendly manner among friends. In my opinion you’d do us all a service by sleeping on it, Passant. That’s all I’m prepared to say. And now, if you’ll forgive me, Howard, I’m afraid that I must go and get some sleep myself.’
We heard his footsteps down the path and the click of the latch. George stared at the carpet. Without looking up he said to Martineau: ‘I’m sorry that I’ve spoiled your evening.’
‘Don’t be silly, George. Harry Eden always was clumsy with the china.’ Martineau had followed George’s eyes to the stain on the carpet, and spoke as though he knew that, in George’s mind, the spill was rankling more even than the quarrel. Martineau went on: ‘As for your little disagreement, of course you know that Harry was trying to smooth the matter down.’
George did not respond, but in a moment burst out: ‘I should like to explain to you, Mr Martineau. I know you believe that I should be careful about doing harm to the firm. I thought it over as thoroughly as I could: I’m capable of deceiving myself occasionally, but I don’t think I did this time. I decided that it would cause a whiff of gossip – I admit that, naturally – but it wouldn’t lose us a single case. You’d have made the same decision: except that you wouldn’t have deliberated quite so long.’ George was speaking fervently, naturally, with complete trust. I wished that he could have spoken in that way to Eden – if only for a few words.
‘I’m a cautious old creature, George,’ said Martineau.
‘Cautious! Why, you’d bring the whole town down on our heads if you felt that some clerk, whom you’d never seen, wasn’t free to attend the rites of a schismatic branch of the Greek Orthodox Church – in which you yourself, of course, passionately disbelieved.’ George gave a friendly roar of laughter. ‘Or have you been tempted by some new branch of the Orthodox lately?’
‘Not yet,’ Martineau chuckled. ‘Not yet.’
Then George said: ‘I expect you understood my position right from the start, Mr Martineau. After Mr Eden’s remarks, though, I should like to hear that you approve.’
Martineau hesitated. Then he smiled, choosing his words: ‘I don’t consider you a man who needs approval, George. And it’s my duty to dissuade you, as Harry did. You mustn’t take it that I’m not dissuading you.’ He hesitated again. ‘But I think I understand what you feel.’
George listened to the evasive reply: he may have heard within it another appeal to stop, subtler than Eden’s, because of the liking between himself and Martineau. He replied, seriously and simply: ‘You know that I’m not going into this for my own amusement. I’m not searching out an injustice just for the pleasure of trampling on it. I might have done once, but I shouldn’t now. You’ve understood, of course: something needs to be done for Cotery, and I’m the only man who can do it.’
5: George’s Attack
THE meeting of the School committee was summoned for the following Wednesday. I knew before George, since the notice passed through my hands in the education office. And, by asking a parting favour from an acquaintance, I got myself the job of taking the minutes.
On Tuesday night, I thought that I might be wasting the effort: for a strong rumour came from Olive that Jack himself had pleaded with George to go no further. But when I saw George later that night, and asked, ‘What about tomorrow?’ he replied: ‘I’m ready for it. And ready to celebrate afterwards.’
I arrived at the Principal’s room at ten minutes to six the next evening. The gas fire was burning; the Principal was writing at his desk under a shaded light; the room seemed solid and official, though the shelves and chairs were carved in pine, in a firm plain style which the School was now teaching.
The Principal looked up as I laid the minute book on a small table; he was called Cameron, and had reddish hair and jutting eyebrows.
‘Good evening. I am sorry that we have to trespass on your time,’ he said. He always showed a deliberate consideration to subordinates; but from duty, not from instinct. At this time he probably did not know that I attended lectures at the School.
Then Miss Geary, the vice-principal, entered. ‘It was for six o’clock?’ she said. They exchanged a few remarks about School business: it was easy to hear that there was no friendliness between them. But the temperature of friendliness in the room mounted rapidly when, by the side of Canon Martineau, Beddow came in. He was a Labour councillor, a brisk, cordial, youngish man, very much on the rise; he had a word for everyone, includi
ng an aside for me – ‘Minuting a committee means they think well of you up at the office. I know it does.’
‘I suppose we’re waiting for Calvert as usual,’ said Canon Martineau, who had a slight resemblance to his brother, but spoke with a drier and more sardonic tang. ‘And can anyone tell me how long this meeting is likely to last?’
‘No meeting ever seems likely to last long until you’ve been in it a few hours,’ said Beddow cheerfully. ‘But anyway, the sooner we begin this, the sooner we shall get through.’
Ten minutes later, Calvert appeared, a small bald man, pink and panting from hurry. Beddow shook his hand warmly and pulled out a chair for him at the committee table.
‘I hope you won’t mind sitting by me,’ he said. He chatted to Calvert for a few moments about investments; and then briskly, but without any implication that Calvert was late, said: ‘Well, gentlemen, we’ve got a certain amount ahead of us tonight. If you don’t object I think we might as well begin.’
The City Education Committee was made up partly from councillors and partly from others, like the Canon: in its turn it appointed this one, ad hoc: and so Beddow took the chair. He, with Calvert on his right and the Principal on his left, sat looking towards the door, on the same side of the committee table: the Canon and Miss Geary occupied the ends of it. I worked at the smaller table behind theirs, and within reach of the Principal and Beddow.
The Principal read the minutes (I was there purely to record) and then Miss Geary interrupted.
‘Can we take No. 6 first, Mr Chairman?’ No. 6 on the agenda read: ‘J Cotery. Termination of Bursary.’ ‘I believe Mr Passant wishes to make a statement. And I noticed that he was waiting in the staffroom.’
‘I suggest that the first three items cannot conveniently wait,’ said the Principal promptly. Beddow looked round the table.
‘I think the feeling of the meeting is for taking those three items first,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Geary: we shan’t waste any unnecessary time.’
The three items were, in fact, mainly routine – fees for a new course in architecture, scholarships for next year. The clock on the Principal’s desk was striking the third quarter when Beddow said: ‘That polishes off your urgent business, doesn’t it? Well, I suppose we’re obliged to get No. 6 over some time. Perhaps this would be a convenient opportunity to have Mr Passant in.’
The Principal said nothing. Beddow went on: ‘But, before I do ring for him, I should like to say something that we all feel. We are all more than sorry that Mr Calvert should be put in the position of having to listen to criticism – criticism of whether he should continue to pay an employee’s fees or not. Perhaps he’ll let me assure him, as a political opponent, that he has the reputation of being one of the best employers in this city. We all know that he has originated the very scheme over which he is being forced to listen to – unfortunate criticism. Perhaps I can say that one of the compensations for educational work in the city is the privilege of meeting men like Mr Calvert – political opponents though they may be – round the same friendly table.’
The Principal produced a loud, deliberate ‘Hear, hear.’ Calvert gave a quick, embarrassed smile, and went on scribbling on the pad of foolscap in front of him.
Beddow rang the bell: George was shown in.
‘Ah, sit down there, Mr Passant. I’m sorry we’ve had to keep you so long,’ Beddow, with his brisk, friendly smile. His affability was genuine at the root, but had become practised as he found it useful. He pointed out a small cane-bottomed chair on the other side of the table. George sat down; he was isolated from the others; they all looked at him.
‘I’ll now ask the Principal,’ said Beddow, ‘to speak to this business of the bursary.’
‘This is really a very ordinary matter, Mr Chairman,’ said the Principal. ‘The Committee is aware of the conditions on which our bursaries are awarded. Owing to the inspiration of our benefactor, Mr Calvert’ – the Canon smiled across at Calvert – ‘various employers in the town have co-operated with us in paying the fees of young men of promise. No one has ever contemplated that this arrangement could not be cancelled in any particular case, if there appeared adequate reason to the employer or ourselves. There are several precedents. The present case is entirely straightforward. Cotery, the man in question, has been sent here by Mr Calvert; his course normally would extend over three years, of which he has completed one. But Mr Calvert has decided that there is no likelihood of his being able to use Cotery in a position for which this course would qualify him; and so, in the man’s own best interests, he considers that his bursary here should be discontinued. Several of these cases, as I say, have been reported to the committee in previous years. The committee has always immediately approved the employer’s recommendation.’
‘As the Principal has told us,’ Beddow said, ‘we have always taken these cases as a matter of form… But Mr Passant, I believe, is interested in this young man Cotery, and has asked permission to attend this business tonight. After the Principal’s statement, Mr Passant, is there anything that you want to say?’
‘Yes, Mr Chairman, there are some things that I want to say,’ said George. He had nowhere to rest his hands: he pulled down his waistcoat. But he was not resentful and defensive, as he had been with Eden the Friday night before. Four out of these five were against him: always ready to scent enemies, he must have known. Yet, now it had come to the moment, his voice was clear, masterful, and strong.
‘First, this committee is responsible for appointing Cotery and it is responsible now if his support is withdrawn. The only consideration which such a committee can act upon is whether a man is making good use of his opportunity. Cotery could not be making better. I sent a request to the Principal that a report from those supervising his work here should be circularised to the committee. If it has not arrived, I can say that they regard his ability as higher than anyone in their department for the last three years. You cannot ask more than that. If the committee allows itself to be coerced by an employer to get rid of such a man, it is showing itself singularly indifferent to merit. And it ought in honesty to declare that its appointments are governed, not partly but entirely, by employers’ personal vendettas.’
George’s voice rang round the room. Calvert’s sounded faint by contrast as he broke in: ‘I can’t allow – I mean, personal considerations have nothing to do with it.’
‘I should like to ask, through you, Mr Chairman,’ said George, the instant Calvert finished, ‘whether Mr Calvert maintains that personal considerations have not dictated his entire course of action?’
‘I protest,’ said the Principal.
‘It’s entirely a matter – the organisation of my firm, I mean, didn’t happen to give room for another man of Cotery’s age. I let him know – I think he realised during the summer. I certainly let him know.’
In the midst of George, Beddow and the Principal, all fluent in their different manners, Calvert was at a loss for words. His face was chubby and petulant, and quite unlike his handsome son’s. His irritation seemed naïve and bewildered; but I felt a streak of intense obstinacy in him.
‘I think,’ said George, ‘that Mr Calvert ought to be allowed to withdraw his last suggestion.’
‘I have no intention of – No,’ said Calvert.
‘Then,’ said George, ‘who knew that you wouldn’t have room for Cotery? and so intended to cut him off here?’
‘No one, except Cotery and myself. I don’t – it’s not necessary to discuss my business with other people.’
‘That is, no one knew of your intention until you wrote to the Principal some days ago?’ said George.
‘There was no need.’
‘No one knew of your intention, in fact, until another incident had happened? Until after you told Cotery that you had forbidden your son–’
Beddow interrupted loudly: ‘I can’
t allow any more, Mr Passant. I’ve got to apologise again’ – he turned to Calvert – ‘that you’ve been compelled to listen to remarks that, giving Mr Passant every shadow of a doubt, are in the worst possible taste.’
‘I entirely concur,’ said the Principal. It was clear that he and Beddow, at any rate, knew the whole sorry story. ‘And, Mr Chairman, since a delicate matter has most regrettably been touched on, I wonder if Miss Geary would not prefer to leave the room?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Geary; and settled herself squatly and darkly in her chair.
‘I take it,’ said George, ‘that to punish a man without trial is in the best possible taste. And I refuse to make this incident sound ominous by brooding over it in silence. Mr Calvert either knows or ought to know that Cotery is absolutely innocent; that the whole matter has been ridiculously exaggerated; that it was nothing but a romantic gesture.’
‘I believe that,’ said Calvert. A glance of sympathy passed between them; for a second, they were made intimate by their quarrel. Then Calvert said obstinately: ‘But it has nothing to do with it.’
‘I am a little surprised,’ said Canon Martineau, ‘that Mr Passant is able to speak with such authority about this young man Cotery. I confess that his standing in the matter isn’t quite so obvious–’
‘I have the right to appear here about any student,’ said George. Their hostility was gathering round him: but he was as self-forgetful as I had ever seen him.
The Principal seized a cue, and said: ‘Mr Passant has, as it happens, a right to appear about students with whom he is not connected. In fact, Cotery never attended any of your classes, Mr Passant?’
‘He presumably wouldn’t have done so exceptionally well in printing,’ George said loudly, ‘if he had attended my classes in law.’
