Charles Snow - George Passant

‘When?’

‘It can’t be long, it can’t possibly be long,’ Martineau replied.

‘Next Friday?’ I asked.

‘No, not then. I shan’t be in that night.’

Since any of us knew him, he had never missed being at home on Friday night. He announced it quite casually.

‘I’ll see you soon, though,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell George when we can arrange one of our chats. It’s so friendly of you to be worried. I value that, you don’t know how I value that.’

In the street there was a mist which encircled the lamps. For a moment we stood outside the park gate; I felt a shiver of chill, and an anxious tension became mixed with the night’s cold. Morcom said: ‘We’d better go and have a coffee. We ought to talk this out.’

We walked down the road towards the station, chatting perfunctorily, our footsteps ringing heavily in the dank air. We went — there was nowhere else in this part of the town at night — to the café where we held the first conference about Jack.

‘Can we do anything?’ Morcom asked, as soon as we sat down. ‘Have either of you any ideas?’

‘He must be stopped,’ said George.

‘That’s easy to say.’

‘If only he could be made to recognise the facts ,’ George said.

‘That doesn’t help.’

‘Of course it would help. The man’s simply been misled. By the way,’ George added with an elaborately indifferent smile, ‘I thought you might have taken the opportunity to enlighten him. About the importance of the work I’ve done for them. Particularly the case.’

I saw a light, a narrowed concentration, in Morcom’s eyes; I was on edge. I expected him to be provoked by the insistence and say something like, ‘I could have explained, George, how important the case seems to you.’ Morcom hesitated, and said: ‘I would. But it wouldn’t have been useful to you — or to him.’

‘That’s absurd,’ George burst out. ‘If he could really see.’

‘It wouldn’t make the slightest difference.’

‘I refuse to accept that.’

‘Don’t you see,’ Morcom leaned forward, ‘that he’s bound to leave ?’

I knew it too. Yet George sat without replying. He seemed blind: he was a man himself more passionate and uncontrolled than any of us, but now he was not able to see past his own barricade of reasons, he was not able to perceive the passions of another.

‘You must recognise that,’ Morcom was saying. ‘You don’t think all these arguments matter to him? Except to bolster up a choice he’s already been forced to make. That’s all. I expect it pleases him’ — he smiled — ‘to be told how much he’s giving up, and how unnecessary it is. It’s just a luxury. As for affecting him, one might as well sing choruses from The Gondoliers . He’s already made the decision in his mind.’ He smiled again. ‘As far as that goes,’ he added, ‘he may already have made it in fact.’

‘You mean he’s actually sold his share?’ George said.

‘I don’t know,’ said Morcom. ‘It’s possible.’

‘To some bastard,’ said George, ‘who happens to have enough money to make a nuisance of himself to other people. Who’ll disapprove of everything I do. Who’ll make life intolerable for me.’

I walked past Martineau’s, the following Friday night. The drawing room window was dark: Martineau, so George thought, was visiting his brother, the Canon. Next day, when I was having supper with Morcom, George sent a message by Jack: Martineau wanted to see us tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon: we were to meet at George’s.

‘Martineau’s getting more fun out of all this than anyone else,’ said Jack. ‘Like your girl’ — he said to Morcom — ‘when she decided to sacrifice herself. Blast them both.’ He could speak directly to Morcom about Olive, as no one else could; and he went out of his way to ease Morcom’s jealousy. ‘How is she, by the way? No one else ever hears a word but you.’

‘She seems fairly cheerful,’ said Morcom.

‘Blast her and Martineau as well. Send them off together,’ said Jack. ‘They deserve each other. That’d put them right if anything could.’ His face melted into a mischievous, kindly grin. I had heard him say the same, with even more mischief, about Sheila.

When I arrived at George’s the next day, he was smoking after the midday meal. His shout of greeting had a formal cheerfulness, but I could hear no heart behind it.

‘You’re the first,’ he said.

‘Martineau is coming?’

‘I imagine so,’ said George. ‘Even Martineau couldn’t get us all together and then not turn up himself.’

We sat by the window, looking out into the street. The knocker on the door opposite glistened in the sun.

Soon there were footsteps down the pavement. Martineau looked in and waved his hand. George went to let him in.

‘Come in,’ I heard George saying, and then, ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’

Martineau sat down in an armchair opposite the window; his face, lit by the clear light from the street, looked tranquil and happy. George pushed the table back against the wall, and placed two chairs in front of the fire.

‘Have you seen Morcom lately?’ he said to Martineau. ‘I sent him word.’

‘He may be just a little late,’ Martineau said. ‘He is having lunch with’ — he smiled at George — ‘my brother.’

‘Why’s that?’ George’s question shot out.

‘To talk over my little affair, I’m afraid,’ Martineau answered. ‘I’ve never made such a nuisance of myself before—’ his laugh was full of pleasure.

‘What does your brother think of it?’

‘Very much the same as you do, George. He rather took the line that I owe an obligation to my relatives.’ Martineau stared at the ceiling. ‘I tried to put it to him as a Christian minister. I pointed out that he ought to sympathise with our placing certain duties higher than our duties to relatives. But he didn’t seem to agree with my point of view.’

‘Nor would any man of any sense,’ said George.

‘But is sense the most important thing?’ Martineau asked ‘For myself—’

‘I refuse to be bullied by all these attacks on reason. I’m sorry, Mr Martineau,’ said George, ‘but I spend a great deal of my own time, as you know perfectly well, in activities that don’t give me any personal profit whatever; but I’m prepared to justify them by reason, and if I couldn’t I should give them up. That isn’t true of what you propose to do, and so if you’ve got any respect for your intellectual honesty you’ve got no option but to abandon it.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t see it like that.’ Martineau moved restlessly; his eyes met mine and then looked into the fire.

‘There is no other way of seeing it,’ said George.

(Many years later, near the end of George’s life, I had to recall that justification of his.)

Through the uproar of George’s voice I thought I had heard a knock at the door; it came again, now. I got up, and brought Morcom in. He spoke directly to Martineau.

‘Eden’s made a suggestion—’

‘Where have you been?’ George interrupted.

‘Having lunch with Eden and Howard’s brother.’

‘I’m afraid,’ Martineau broke in, ‘I’ve been rather guilty this afternoon. I was trying to break it gently, you see, George. You must forgive me!’

‘I’d better be told now.’

‘Well, I spent all the early part of last week thinking over everything that had been said,’ Martineau began. ‘It was very difficult with so many friends that I really respect — you must believe that I respect your opinion, George — with so many friends — disapproving so much. But in the end I felt that I had to let them disapprove. The way I’d come to did really seem to be the only way.’ He smiled. ‘It does still.’