by C. P. Snow
Copyright & Information
Homecomings
First published in 1956
© Philip Snow; House of Stratus 1956-2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of C.P. Snow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 0755120116 EAN 9780755120116
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About the Author
Charles Percy Snow was born in Leicester, on 15 October 1905. He was educated from age eleven at Alderman Newton’s School for boys where he excelled in most subjects, enjoying a reputation for an astounding memory and also developed a lifelong love of cricket. In 1923 he became an external student in science of London University, as the local college he attended in Leicester had no science department. At the same time he read widely and gained practical experience by working as a laboratory assistant at Newton’s to gain the necessary practical experience needed.
Having achieved a first class degree, followed by a Master of Science he won a studentship in 1928 which he used to research at the famous Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge. There, he went on to become a Fellow of Christ’s College, Cambridge, in 1930 where he also served as a tutor, but his position became increasingly titular as he branched into other areas of activity. In 1934, he began to publish scientific articles in Nature, and then The Spectator before becoming editor of the journal Discovery in 1937. However, he was also writing fiction during this period, with his first novel Death Under Sail published in 1932, and in 1940 ‘Strangers and Brothers’ was published. This was the first of eleven novels in the series and was later renamed ‘George Passant’ when ‘Strangers and Brothers’ was used to denote the series itself.
Discovery became a casualty of the war, closing in 1940. However, by this time Snow was already involved with the Royal Society, who had organised a group to specifically use British scientific talent operating under the auspices of the Ministry of Labour. He served as the Ministry’s technical director from 1940 to 1944. After the war, he became a civil service commissioner responsible for recruiting scientists to work for the government. He also returned to writing, continuing the Strangers and Brothers series of novels. ‘The Light and the Dark’ was published in 1947, followed by ‘Time of Hope’ in 1949, and perhaps the most famous and popular of them all, ‘The Masters’, in 1951. He planned to finish the cycle within five years, but the final novel ‘Last Things’ wasn’t published until 1970.
He married the novelist Pamela Hansford Johnson in 1950 and they had one son, Philip, in 1952. Snow was knighted in 1957 and became a life peer in 1964, taking the title Baron Snow of the City Leicester. He also joined Harold Wilson’s first government as Parliamentary Secretary to the new Minister of Technology. When the department ceased to exist in 1966 he became a vociferous back-bencher in the House of Lords.
After finishing the Strangers and Brothers series, Snow continued writing both fiction and non-fiction. His last work of fiction was ‘A Coat of Vanish’, published in 1978. His non-fiction included a short life of Trollope published in 1974 and another, published posthumously in 1981, ‘The Physicists: a Generation that Changed the World‘. He was also inundated with lecturing requests and offers of honorary doctorates. In 1961, he became Rector of St. Andrews University and for ten years also wrote influential weekly reviews for the Financial Times.
In these later years, Snow suffered from poor health although he continued to travel and lecture. He also remained active as a writer and critic until hospitalized on 1 July 1980. He died later that day of a perforated ulcer.
‘Mr Snow has established himself, on his own chosen ground, in an eminent and conspicuous position among contemporary English novelists’ - New Statesman
Dedication
To
William Cooper
Part One
Homecoming
1: Lighted Window Seen from the Street
IT was a February afternoon of smoky sunshine, as I walked home along the embankment to my wife. The river ran white in the sun, the plume from a tug’s funnel came out blue as cigarette-smoke; on the far bank the reflections from windows shone through haze, and down towards Chelsea where I was walking, the smoke was so thick that the skyline, the high chimneys, had smudged themselves into it.
The day was a Tuesday, the year 1938; I had not been home since the Thursday before, which was my usual routine, as I had to spend half my week in Cambridge. I felt an edge of anxiety, a tightness of the nerves, as I always did going home after an absence, even an absence as short as this. Ever since I could remember, seeking deep into my childhood, I had felt this dread on the way home, this dread of what might be waiting for me.
It was nothing serious, it was just one of the reasonless anxieties one had to live with, it was no worse than that. Even now, when some times it turned out not so reasonless, I had got used to it. On those Tuesday evenings, walking home from Millbank to Chelsea along the river, I was anxious as I always had been, returning home, but I had put out of mind the special reason why.
Yet that day, as soon as I reached Cheyne Walk, my eyes were straining before I was in sight of our house. When I did see it, the picture might to a stranger have looked serene and enviable. The drawing-room lights were already on, first of the houses along that reach; the curtains had not been drawn, and from the road, up the strip of garden, one could see the walls, high with white-painted panels. If I had been a stranger, looking up the garden from Cheyne Walk, that glimpse of a lighted room would have had for me the charm of domestic mystery and peace.
As I walked up the path, I did not know how she would be.
The hall was brilliantly lit, pernicketily tidy, the hall of a childless couple. No voice greeted me. I went quickly inside the drawing-room. Here also the lights attacked me, as in the dazzle I saw my wife. Saw her quiet, composed, preoccupied. For she was sitting at a small table, away from the fireplace, looking down at a chess-board. On the board were only a few pieces, each of them much bigger than an ordinary chess-man, part of an Indian set which, out of some whim, Sheila had bought herself the year before. So far a
s I could see, she was not playing a game, but working out a problem. She looked up.
‘Hallo, you’re in, are you?’ she said. ‘You’d better help me with this.’
I was flooded with relief; relief so complete as to be happiness, just as I always was when I found her free from strain. Whatever I had expected, it was not this. I drew up a chair opposite her, and, as she bent her head and glanced at the board, I looked through the tall pieces at her forehead, the lines of which were tightened, not as so often with her own inner care, but with simple calculation.
‘I don’t see it,’ she said, and smiled at me with great light-filled grey eyes.
At this time she was thirty-three, the same age within months as I was myself. But she looked much older than her age. When I first fell in love with her, as long ago as fourteen years before, men had thought her beautiful. Since then her face had changed, though I, who had watched it as no one else had, would have been the last to recognize how much.
The lines, which when she was a girl had been visible on her forehead and under her eyes, were now deep; her fine, strong nose had sharpened; her expression had become both harder and more still, drawn and fixed with unhappiness. Only her eyes were untouched, and they, so large that they might have been mournful as a lemur’s, had not shared in the sadness of her face. Even at her worst, they could still look lively, penetrating, not-taken-in; just as her body, beneath the lined, overwrought face, was strong, almost heavy, the body of a woman powerful, healthy and still young.
Seeing her through the chess pieces, I noticed none of these changes, for I was only concerned with her state from day to day. I knew the slightest change in her expression, but I could not see what would be obvious to others. Trying to keep her steady, over the hours, the days, the years, I had lost my judgement about whether she was getting better or worse. All I knew was that tonight she was gay, anxiety-free, and that for this night, which was as far as I could see ahead, there was nothing to worry about.
I had loved her all through my young manhood, and, although my love had changed because of what had happened to us, I loved her still. When I first met her, I thought that the luck was on her side; she was beautiful, she was intelligent, she was comfortably off, above all she did not love me when I passionately loved her. That meant that she had power over me, and I none over her; it meant that she could tantalize me for years, she could show me the cruelty of one who feels nothing. It meant also, but I did not realize it then, that she was the more to be pitied. For it turned out that it was not only me she could not love, but anyone. She craved to; she tried to find someone to love; she tried to find psychiatrists and doctors who would tell her why she could not. Then, all else failing, she fell back on me, who still loved her, and let me marry her.
It could not have gone well. It might have gone a little better, I sometimes thought, if we had had children, which each of us longed for. But we were left with nothing but ourselves.
‘I must get it out,’ she said, staring long-sightedly at the board. With two fingers she touched a piece shaped like a howdahed elephant, which in a European set would have been a castle. Out of anxious habit, my glance fixed, not on the strong broad-tipped fingers, but on the nails. Once again that night I was relieved. Though they were not painted, they were clean and trimmed. There had been times when her sense of deprivation froze her into stupor, when she no longer took care of herself. That frightened me, but it had not happened for some years. Usually she dressed well enough, and as she walked by the embankment pubs or along the King’s Road, people saw a woman with her head high, a muscular stride, a face handsome and boldly made up.
‘You’d better start again systematically,’ I said.
‘Teach me,’ said Sheila.
It was like her to be willing to take a lesson in the theory of chess problems. It was like her also not to have asked a single question about what I had been doing, although she had not seen me for four days. Cambridge, my London job, they did not exist for her. From before our marriage, from the time when she no longer hoped that all would come well for her, she had become more shut up within herself. In fact, trying to look after her, I had broken my career.
When I married, I thought I knew what it would be like. I should have to watch over her dreads; I had seen something of the schizoid chill; I could imagine how tasks trivial to the rest of us were ordeals to her, how any arrangement in the future, even the prospect of going to a dinner party, could crack her nerves. But I had been borne along by passionate love for her, physical passion pent up for years, and perhaps more than that. So I went into it, and, like others before me,soon knew that no imaginative forecast of what a life will be is anything like that life lived from day to day.
I did my best for her. It scarcely helped her at all. But it left me without much energy free. When we married, I had just got a foot in at the Bar, I was being thought of as a rising junior. Unless I parted from Sheila, I could not keep up that struggle. And so I found less strenuous jobs, a consulting one with Paul Lufkin’s firm and a law fellowship at Cambridge, the latter taking me away from the Chelsea house three or four nights a week. When she was at her most indrawn, sitting by her gramophone for hours on end, I was glad, although it was a cowardly relief, to get away.
That February evening, as we sat opposite each other at the chess table in the bright room, I thought of none of these things. It was quite enough that she seemed content. It gave me – what sometimes can exist in the unhappiest of marriages, although an outsider does not realize its power – a kind of moral calm. Habit was so strong that it could wipe away ambitions put aside, crises of choice, a near-parting, all that had gone on in my secret life with her: habit was sitting near her, watching her nails, watching for the tic, the pseudo-smile, that came when strain was mastering her.
‘I saw RSR today,’ she said out of the blue.
‘Did you?’
‘I’ve got an idea he was looking for me.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I said.
‘We had a drink. He was in good form.’
Once that would have been a way to provoke my jealousy. Not now. I welcomed anything that would give her interest or hope. She still had bursts of activity in which she lost herself – once or twice, for those were the thirties, in politics; but usually in trying to help some lame dog whom she had met by chance. A little backstreet café where she went by herself – I found that she had lent the proprietor money to keep on the lease. A derelict curate, terrified that he was going to be prosecuted – she was on call for him at any time he wanted. Utterly uninterested in my goings on, her family’s, her old friends’, she could still become absorbed in those of someone new. With them she was selfless, they gave her a flash of hope, she became like the young woman I had first known.
‘He began to talk very airily about getting himself financed again,’ said Sheila.
‘He’s not losing any time, is he?’
‘I wonder if I could do anything for him,’ she said.
‘Plenty of people have tried, you know,’ I said.
It was true. I had only met R S Robinson once; he was a man of sixty, who before 1914 had made a reputation as the editor of an avant-garde monthly. Since then, he had been a hanger-on of letters, ghosting for agents, bringing out uncommercial magazines, losing money, making enemies, always ready with a new project. It was not long since he had manoeuvred an introduction to Sheila; the manoeuvres had been elaborate, he might as well have shouted out loud that he had heard she was well-off.
‘Yes, plenty have tried,’ she said. ‘So much the worse for them.’
She gave me a realistic jeering smile. She always met her down-and-outs with her eyes open. She added: ‘But that isn’t much comfort for him, is it?’
‘But if other people have got involved,’ I said, some second-hand rumour running through my mind, ‘it isn’t encouraging for you.’
‘You’ve heard things against him?’
‘Of course.’
&
nbsp; ‘I expect,’ said Sheila, ‘he’s heard things against me.’
She gave a curious mocking laugh, almost brazen-sounding, a sign that her hopes were high. It was a long time since I had seen them so.
‘Perhaps even against you,’ she said.
I smiled back, I could not depress her; at moments like this her spirits could still make mine spring from the earth. But I said: ‘I tell you, he’s run through plenty of well-wishers. There must be something the matter.’
‘Of course there’s something the matter. If not,’ she said, ‘he wouldn’t have any use for me.’ Again she smiled: ‘Look, it’s those with something the matter who need someone. I should have thought even you might have grasped that by now.’
She stood up, went over to the fireplace, grasped the mantelpiece and arched her back.
‘We’re all right for money, aren’t we?’ she asked. Just for once, she, who usually spoke so nakedly, was being disingenuous. She knew our financial state as well as I did. She would not have been her father’s daughter otherwise. Actually, prepared to throw money away as she was, she had a shrewd business head. She knew exactly just how much money need not trouble us. With my earnings and her income, we drew in more than two thousand a year, and lived well within it, even though we kept up this comfortable home and had a housekeeper to look after us.
I nodded yes, we were all right.
‘That’s one thing settled then.’
‘As long,’ I said, ‘as you’re not going to be too disappointed–’
‘I don’t expect too much.’
‘You mustn’t expect anything,’ I said.
