Charles Snow - The Sleep of Reason

“You’d better calm down,” said Sammikins, getting hot-eyed himself.

“Why the hell should I? I had an invitation, didn’t I? I suppose you had an invitation—”

Then Maurice came up, and greeted him amicably. “Hallo, young man,” said Porson.

“I expected you’d be in church,” said Maurice.

“Well, I thought about it—”

“You promised Godfrey” (the parson) “you would, didn’t you?”

“To tell you the bloody truth,” said Porson, “it’s a bit too spike for me.” He began, self-propelled onto another grievance, on what “they” were doing to the Church of England, but Maurice (the other’s rage dripped off him), said he would drive him round, they would still arrive in time for the Christmas greetings. Gentle, unworried, Maurice led him out: although the last I saw, looking through the hall towards the lift, were Porson’s arms raised above his head, as though he were inspired into a final denunciation of the whole house.

About an hour later, the crowd had gone, Pat and the waiters had cleared the glasses from the drawing-room, the windows were open to the cold air. Again in the morphology of parties, there was still the last residue remaining, not only remaining but settling down. Edgar Hankins reposed on cushions on the drawing-room floor: so did the playwright: Margaret and I sat back in our habitual chairs. Martin and Irene, since they were staying with us, remained too. Their daughter had gone to bed, Pat had disappeared, but Charles wanted to look as though the night were just beginning. Also fixtures, unpredictable fixtures, were Gilbert and Betty Cooke.

Martin, cheerful, said to me: “Look, you’re about eighteen drinks behind the rest of us. Won’t you have one now?”

I hadn’t been able to tell him about George Passant’s news. It would have been a relief to do so. But now I was tired, sedated by the to-and-fro of people, not caring: yes, I said, I might as well have a drink. When he brought it to me, it was very strong. That was deliberate, for Martin was a vigilant man.

Someone cried “Happy Christmas!”

From the floor Edgar Hankins, who was far gone, raised a dormouse-like head.

“Not the English greeting,” he muttered, fluffing the words.

“What’s the matter?” said Irene.

“Not Happy Christmas. Insipid modernism. Vulgar. Genteel taste. Merry Christmas — that’s the proper way. Merry Christmas.”

Hankins subsided. Gilbert Cooke, with Charles sitting beside him, could at last indulge his insatiable passion for talking about their school. Charles wanted to hold inquiries about people at the party, but was trapped.

For a few minutes Betty and I were in conversation, quietly, with talk all round us. We were fond of each other, we had been for years. In bad times for us both, we had tried to help each other. Her love affairs had gone wrong: she was diffident but passionate, she hadn’t the nerve to grab. We had thought, certainly I had, that she deserved a better man than Gilbert, or at least a different one. Yet somehow the marriage had worked.

That night, as we whispered, she was watching me with her acute, splendid eyes, the feature which, more in middle age than youth, gave her a touch of beauty.

“You’ve had enough,” she said.

I protested.

“Now, now, now,” she said. “I used to notice one or two things, didn’t I?”

I had to give a smile.

“I’ll get rid of them,” she said, glancing round the room. It was the sort of practical good turn which, even in her bleakest times, she had often done for me.

Next morning I woke up early. Through the window came the sound, very faint, of church bells. I stretched myself, feeling well, with the vague sense, perhaps some shadow of a memory from childhood, of a pleasing day ahead. Then, edging into consciousness, suddenly shutting out all else — as sharp, as absolute as when, a few weeks before, I had awakened in well-being and then seen the veil over my eye — was the brute fact. There was nothing to keep away or soften what George had told me; and what I felt as I listened, I felt waking up that morning, as though the passage of hours hadn’t happened, or couldn’t do its work.

A milky blue sky, a bland and sunny afternoon, very mild for the second week in January. There was a blazing fire in the Residence drawing-room, and I was sitting on the window seat. Neither Vicky nor Arnold Shaw had been in the house when I arrived an hour before, but all the matter-of-fact comforts had been arranged, and, looking out at the bright daylight, I did not want to leave them. In fact, I had an appointment with Eden & Sharples, George’s old firm, at half past three.

My old colleagues who had to live the disciplined official life had taught me, not that I was good at it, to cut off my thoughts. Douglas Osbaldiston went each morning to see the wife he loved, able to move only her lips and eyes: he arrived at the Treasury as immersed in the day’s timetable as when he was happy. At times it was better to think of the timetable. I was to call on my father that night. That would be no tax: I had received a letter from him just after Christmas (he had written to me not more than half-a-dozen times in my whole life) saying that he would like to see me.

I had one more thing to do before I went to the solicitors. As soon as the young women were charged, which happened on the last day of December, I had telephoned George, telling him that I would keep my promise, but that in return I needed to know about his health. It sounded harsh, or even irrelevant: George was angry and then evasive: I insisted. I couldn’t explain, but I had to know what I was taking on, and where I could draw the limits: how much responsibility was he fit for himself?

So, in the hall at the Residence, I did some more telephoning. George had at last given me his doctor’s name. He had also undertaken to tell the doctor that I was authorised to enquire.

Over the telephone I heard a jolly, lubricated, courteous voice. Yes, Passant was a patient of his. Yes, he knew about me, of course, but he didn’t remember Passant mentioning my name. I said (George, whom I shouldn’t see till next day, had either forgotten or been deceitful) that I was a very old friend.

“Well, anyway, I’m glad to talk to you.” The voice was forthcoming, relaxed. “He hasn’t any close relations, has he?”

I said that he had two sisters alive, but, so far as I knew, saw nothing of them.

“He’s not as well as he ought to be, you know.”

I asked what was the matter.

“Physically, he’s a good deal older than his age.”

Was he really ill?

“No, I can’t say that. But I can’t say either that he’s a specially good life.”

Was he in a condition to take serious strain?

That the doctor couldn’t guess. Passant was a happy man. His arteries, though, were hardening: his blood pressure, despite medication, stayed high.

“He’s his own worst enemy, you know.” The voice was kind, that of someone fond of George. “He’s a very self-indulgent chap, isn’t he? We all like a drop to drink, but I fancy that he takes more than most of us. And I’m certain that he eats too much. If you could persuade him to lose a couple of stone, he might live ten years longer. He ought to have a wife to look after him, of course.” It was all compassionate, brotherly, down-to-earth: but this was one patient out of many, he had no idea of George’s secret life. Nevertheless, he went on talking. It was a relief to know that George had someone who thought about him. “He’s a good soul, isn’t he? Do what you can to make him sensible, won’t you?”