Charles Snow - George Passant

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not that now. I want to ask — something a good deal less.’

‘Go on, Lewis,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s about your partnership,’ I said. ‘George has set his heart on having it himself.’

‘Oh,’ said Martineau. ‘I can see one or two difficulties.’ His tone was curiously businesslike. ‘He didn’t behave very wisely over Calvert, you know.’

‘ You can’t hold that against him,’ I cried.

‘Of course I don’t,’ said Martineau quickly. ‘But he’s very young yet, of course.’

‘It wouldn’t have mattered about his age,’ I said. ‘If he’d the money to buy a partnership somewhere.’

‘I believe that’s true,’ said Martineau.

‘It’s entirely a matter of money. Of course, he hasn’t any.’

‘You’re sure he really wants to be tied down like that?’

‘More than anything in the world. Just at this minute.’

‘He used to put — first things first,’ said Martineau.

‘He still does, I think,’ I said. ‘But he’s not entirely like you. He wants the second things as well.’

‘Well done, well done,’ he said. Then as he quietened down into a pleased smile, he said: ‘Well, if old George really wants to go in, I do hope Eden asks him. George deserves to be given what he wants — more than most of us.’

The affection was, I had always known, genuine and deeper than for any of us. It was as unquestionable as Eden’s dislike of George.

‘Except,’ said Martineau, ‘that perhaps none of us deserves to be given what we want.’

‘Eden certainly won’t ask him,’ I said. ‘He’s said as much.’

‘Such a pity,’ said Martineau. ‘I’m sorry for George, but it can’t be helped.’

I was as diffident as though I were asking for money for myself. Of all men, he seemed the most impossible to plead with for a favour: for no reason that I could understand, except a paralysis of one’s own will.

‘It can be helped,’ I said. ‘You can help it.’

‘I’m helpless.’ Martineau shook his head. ‘It’s Eden’s firm now.’

‘You needn’t give your share to him. You can give it to George instead.’

Very gently, Martineau said: ‘You know how I should like to. I’d like to do that more than most things. But haven’t I told you already why I can’t? You know I can’t—’

‘I know you said you were giving up everything — and it’s being false to yourself to hold on to your share. Even in this way. Can’t you think again about that?’

‘I wish I could,’ said Martineau.

‘I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t serious. But it’s desperately serious.’

Martineau looked at me.

‘It’s George I’m asking you for. This matters more for George’s well-being than it does for all the rest of us put together. It matters infinitely more to him than it does to you.’

‘I don’t believe George cares as much for ordinary rewards—’

‘No. That is trivial by the side of what I mean. I mean this: that George’s life is more complicated than most people’s. He may make something of it that most people would approve. Even that you might yourself. Or he may just — squander himself away.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Martineau.

‘I can’t explain it all, but I’m convinced this is a turning point. If George doesn’t get this partnership, it may do him more harm than anything we could invent against him. I’m only asking you to avert that. Just to take a nominal control for George’s sake. Can’t you allow yourself an — evasion in order not to harm him more than he’s ever been harmed? I tell you, this is critical for George. I think he sometimes knows himself how critical it is.’

There was a silence. Martineau said: ‘I’m sorry, Lewis. I can’t do it, even for that. I can’t even give myself that pleasure.’

‘So you won’t do it?’

‘It’s not like that. I can’t do it.’

‘Of course you could do it,’ I burst out, angry and tired. ‘You could do it — if only you weren’t so proud of your own humility.’

Martineau looked down at the table.

‘I’m sorry you should think that.’

I was too much distressed to be silent.

‘You’re proud of your humility,’ I said. ‘Don’t you realise that? You’re enjoying all this unpleasantness you’re inflicting on yourself. All this suffering and neglect and squalor and humiliation — they’re what you longed for, and you’re happy now.’

Martineau’s eyes looked, smiling, into mine and then aside.

‘No, Lewis, you’re a little wild there. You don’t really think I relish giving up the things I enjoyed most?’

‘In a way, I think you do.’

‘No. You know how I used to enjoy things, the ordinary pleasant things. Like a hot bath in the evening — and looking at my pictures — and having a little music. You know how I enjoyed those?’

I nodded.

‘I’ve given them up, you know. Do you really think I don’t miss them? Or that I actually enjoy the things I have now in their place?’

‘I expect there’s a difference.’

‘You must try to see.’ Martineau was smiling. ‘I am happy, I know. I’m happy. I’m happier because I’ve given up my pleasures. But it’s not because of the actual fact of giving them up. It’s because of the state it’s going to bring me to.’

I spent the weekend alone in my room: on Sunday I felt better, though still too tired to stir. I could do no more, I worked all day and at night sat reading with a convalescent luxury. But on Monday, after tea, that false calm dropped away as I heard a tread on the stairs. George came in — a parody of a smile on his lips.

‘They’ve arranged it,’ he said. He swore coldly. ‘They’ve managed it very subtly. And insulted me at the same time.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I went to remind Eden today that the time had lapsed.’

‘Was that wise?’

‘What does it matter whether it’s wise or not? Did the man think he could keep me in suspense forever? I’d got a perfect right to go and ask him what he had decided about the firm.’

‘And he told you—’

‘Yes, he told me.’ George laughed. ‘He was very genial and avuncular. He was quite glad to tell me. He went so far as to reassure me — I wasn’t to be afraid the change would make any difference to my position. The swine had the impertinence to hint that I thought of myself like any office boy in danger of being dismissed. That’s one of the pleasant features of the whole business: Eden having the kindness to say he wasn’t going to dismiss me. He even went so far as to mention that he and Martineau had both had a high opinion of my ability, and that I’d done good work for the firm. That was the second insult. And the third was when he said I might have slightly more work to do under the new arrangement: so he proposed to give me an extra twenty-five pounds a year.’

‘He meant it good-naturedly.’

‘Nonsense,’ George shouted. ‘If you say that you’re merely associating yourself with the insults. It was completely deliberate. He knew he could go as far as he wanted. And he knew, if he insulted me with an offer like that, I had to accept it. But I don’t think I left him under the illusion that I accepted it very gratefully.’

‘What did you say?’

‘After he’d made it quite clear that he intended to do nothing for me, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t let him know that he was acting atrociously. So I inquired point blank whether he had considered asking me into the firm. Anyway, I had the satisfaction of making him feel ashamed of himself. He said he had thought about the matter — very carefully — very carefully.’ In the middle of George’s violence, I saw his eyes were bewildered. ‘And although he’d like to very much for many reasons, he thought the present time wasn’t very opportune. I told him there would never be a more opportune one. Then he tried to stand on his dignity and said he proposed not to discuss it now. I asked him when there would be an opportune time and when he proposed to discuss it. He hedged. I kept at him. In the end he said it wouldn’t be until he saw how I developed in the next few years. I asked him what he was implying. He said it was too embarrassing for us both for him to discuss it with me there and then, but that he’d had a few words about it with a friend of mine. He might be able to give me a fairer idea. You realise who that is?’ George’s voice filled the room.