Charles Snow - George Passant

‘I know you’re feeling this, and you know I am. I’m reminding you what one has to remind oneself — that he is not on trial, nor are the others, for having wasted himself. But if he was? But if he was? I should say to you what I have thought on and off since I first took on the case. I should say: he started off with a fatal idea. He wanted to build a better world on the basis of this freedom of his: but it’s fatal to build better worlds until you know what human beings are like and what you’re like yourself. If you don’t, you’re liable to build, not a better world, but a worse one; in fact you’re liable to build a world for one purpose and one only, that is just to suit your own private weaknesses. I’m certain that is exactly what Mr Passant has done. And I’m certain that is exactly what all progressively minded people, if you’ll let me call them that, are always likely to do unless they watch themselves. They usually happen to be much too arrogant to watch themselves. I don’t think we should be far wrong to regard Mr Passant as a representative of people who like to call themselves progressive. He’s been too arrogant to doubt his idea of freedom: or to find out what human beings are really like. He’s never realised — though he’s a clever man — that freedom without faith is fatal for sinful human beings. Freedom without faith means nothing but self-indulgence. Freedom without faith has been fatal for Mr Passant himself. Sometimes it seems to me that it will be fatal to most of his kind in this country and the world. Their idea of progress isn’t just sterile: it carries the seed of its own decay.

‘Well, that’s how I think of Mr Passant and progress or liberalism or anarchy or whatever you like. I believe that’s why he’s wasted himself. But you can say — it’s still his own fault. After all, he chose this fatal idea. He adopted it for himself. To that, I just want to say one thing more.

‘He’s a man on his own. I’ve admitted that. But he’s also a child of his time. And that’s more important for the way in which he has thrown himself into freedom without faith. You see, he represents a time and generation that is wretchedly lost by the side of ours. It was easy to believe in order and decency when we were brought up. We might have been useless and wild and against everything round us — but our world was going on, and it seemed to be going on forever. We had something to take our places in. We had got our bearings, most of us had got some sort of religion, some sort of society to believe in and a decent hope for the future.’ Eagerly, he laughed. ‘We’d got something to stick ourselves on to. It didn’t matter so much to us when the war — and everything the war’s meant since — came along. We had something inside us too solid to shift. But look at Mr Passant, and all the generation who are like him. He was fifteen when the war began. He had four years of chaos round him just at that time in his life, just at the time when we had quietness and discipline and hope all round us. It’s what we used to call “the uncounted cost”. You remember that, don’t you? And I’m not sure those four years were the worst. Think of everything that has happened in the years, it’s nearly nineteen years now, since the war began. Imagine people, alive and full of vitality and impressionable, growing up without control, without anyone believing in control, without any hope for the future except in the violence of extremes. Imagine all that, and think what you would have become yourself if you’d been young during this — I’ve heard men who believe in youth at any price call it an “orchard time”. I should say it was one of the swampy patches. Anyway, imagine you were brought up among these young people wasting themselves. That is, if you’re one of us, if you are a normal person who could go either way, who might go either Martineau’s or Passant’s. Well, if you were young, don’t you think you could have found yourself with Passant?

‘That’s what I should have said. I’ve let it out because it’s something that has been pressing inside me all through this trial, and I couldn’t be fair to Mr Passant and his friends unless I — shared it with you. You see, we’re not trying them for being wasted. Unless we’re careful we shall be. The temptation is to feel they’re pretty cheap specimens anyway, to give the benefit of doubt against them. We’ve got to be careful of our own prejudice. Even when the prejudice happens to be absolutely right, as right as anything we’re likely to meet on this earth. But we’re not trying them for their sins and their waste of themselves. We’re not trying them for a fatal idea of freedom. We’re not trying them for their generation. We are trying them for an offence of which there is scarcely a pennyworth of evidence, and which, if it were not for all this rottenness we have raised, you would have dismissed and we should all have been home long ago. You’ve got to discount the prejudice you and I are bound to feel…’

As soon as Getliffe finished his speech, the court rose for the weekend. He had created an impression upon many there, particularly the strangers and casual spectators. Even some who knew George well were more disturbed than they would admit. Someone told me that he thought the whole speech ‘shoddy to the core’; but by far the greater number were affected by Getliffe’s outburst of feeling. They were not considering whether it was right or wrong; he was reflecting something which had been in the air the whole week, and which they had felt themselves. Whatever words he used, even if they disagreed with his ‘ideas’, they knew that he was moved by the same emotions as themselves. They were certain that he was completely sincere.

I went to George’s house after lunch. We did not mention the speech. For a time, George talked in a manner despondent and yet uncontrollably nervous and agitated. He had received that morning from the Principal the formal notice of dismissal from the School.

He took a piece of paper and began drawing a pattern like a spider’s web with small letters beside each intersection. Some time later, Roy arrived. George did not look up from his paper for a moment. At last he raised his head slowly.

‘What is it now?’ he said.

‘I just called in,’ said Roy. He turned his head away, and hesitated. Then he said: ‘Yes, there is something. It can’t be kept quiet. They’ve gone for Rachel.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve asked her to leave her job.’

‘Because she was connected with me?’

‘It’s bad,’ said Roy.

‘How is she going to live?’ I said.

‘I can’t think. But she mustn’t sit down under it. What move do you suggest?’ He looked at George.

‘I’ve done enough damage to her,’ said George. ‘I’m not likely to do any better in the present situation.’

Roy was sad, but not over-anxious: melancholy he already fought against, even at that age, but anxiety was foreign to him. He and I talked of the practical steps that we could take; she was competent, but over thirty-five. It would be difficult to find another job. In the town, after the trial, it might be impossible.

‘If necessary,’ said Roy, ‘my father must make her a niche. He can afford to unbelt another salary.’

We thought of some people whose advice might be useful; one he knew well enough to call on that afternoon. George did not speak during this discussion, and when Roy left, made no remark on his visit. I turned on the light, and drew my chair closer to the fire.

‘How is Morcom?’ George asked suddenly. ‘Someone said he was ill, didn’t they?’

‘I’ve not heard today. I don’t think he’s much better.’

‘We ought to go and see him.’