Charles Snow - Corridors of Power

‘We could have resisted any of these piecemeal,’ said Rose. ‘Though, as you may have noticed, our masters are not at — shall I say, their most Cromwellian — when faced with a “suggestion” from our major allies. But we could not resist them all combined. You must try to give us the benefit of the doubt.’

Our eyes met, each of us blank-faced. No one apologized more profusely than Rose, when apologies were not needed: no one hated apologizing more, when the occasion was real.

‘The upshot is,’ he went on, ‘that some of our more distinguished scientists, who have done good service to the State, are going to have to submit to a distinctly humiliating experience. Or alternatively, be cut off from any connection with the real stuff.’

‘Who are they?’

‘There are one or two who don’t matter much to us. Then there’s Sir Laurence Astill.’

I could not help smiling. Rose gave a wintry grin.

‘I must say,’ I said, ‘I think that’s rather funny. I wish I could be there when it happens.’

‘I have an idea,’ said Rose, ‘that he was thrown in to make things look more decent.’

‘The others?’

‘One is Walter Luke. Between ourselves, since he’s a chief Government scientist, I take that distinctly ill.’

I swore.

‘But still,’ I said, ‘Walter’s a very tough man. I don’t think he’ll mind.’

‘I hope not.’ He paused. ‘Another is a very old friend of yours. Francis Getliffe.’

I sat silent. At last I said: ‘This is a scandal.’

‘I’ve tried to indicate that I don’t regard it with enthusiasm myself.’

‘It’s not only a scandal, but it’s likely to be serious,’ I went on.

‘That was one of my reasons for dragging you here this afternoon.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know Francis very well. I’ve known him since we were very young men. He’s as proud as a man can be. I doubt, I really do doubt, whether he’ll take this.’

‘You must tell him he’s got to.’

‘Why should he?’

‘Duty,’ said Rose.

‘He’s only been lending a hand at all because of duty. If he’s going to be insulted into the bargain—’

‘My dear Lewis,’ said Rose, with a flash of icy temper, ‘a number of us, no doubt less eminent than Getliffe, but still reasonably adequate in our profession, are insulted in one way or another towards the end of our careers. But that doesn’t permit us to abdicate.’

It was almost the only personal complaint I had heard him make, and then half-veiled. I said:‘All Francis wants is to get on with his research and live in peace.’

Rose replied: ‘If I may borrow your own debating technique, may I suggest that, if he does so, there is slightly less chance that either he or any of the rest of us will live in peace?’

He continued sharply: ‘Let’s drop the nonsense. We all know that Getliffe is the scientific mind behind Quaife’s policy. For military things, I think we’re all agreed that he’s the best scientific mind we’ve got. That being so, he’s just got to swallow his pride. You’ve got to tell him so. I repeat, that was one of my reasons for giving you this news today. We’ll probably hear of this unpleasantness tomorrow afternoon. You’ve got to soften the blow before he hears, and persuade him. If you believe in this policy so much — and I thought, forgive me, that there were certain indications that you did — you can’t do any less.’

I waited for a moment, then said, as quietly as I could: ‘What I’ve only just realized — is that you believe in this policy so much.’

Rose did not smile or blink, or show any sign of acquiescence.

‘I am a civil servant,’ he said. ‘I play according to the rules.’ Briskly he asked me: ‘Tell me, how embarrassing is this going to be for Francis Getliffe?’

‘How sensibly do you think they’ll handle him?’

‘They will be told — they may just possibly even know — that he’s an important man.’ He went on, the sarcasm left behind: ‘He has the reputation of being far to the Left. You know that?’

‘Of course I know that,’ I replied. ‘He was a radical in the Thirties. In some ways he still thinks of himself as a radical. That may be true intellectually. But in his heart, it isn’t.’

Rose did not answer for some instants. Then he pointed with his foot over to my right. I turned and looked. It was an oil-painting, like a great many in the drawing-room, of a Victorian officer, side-whiskered, high-coloured, pop-eyed, period that of the Zulu Wars.

‘The trouble with our major allies,’ he said, ‘is that they methodically read every speech Francis Getliffe has ever made, and can’t believe that any of us know anything about him. One of the few advantages of living in England, is that we do know just a little about one another, don’t you agree? We know, for instance, the not entirely irrelevant fact that Francis Getliffe is as likely to betray his country as’ — Rose read the name under the painting without emphasis, but with his bitterest edge — ‘Lieutenant-General Sir James Brudenell, Bart., CB.’

He was still speaking under strain. It had not got less, but greater, after he had broken the news about Francis. There was a jagged pause before he said: ‘There’s something else you’ll have to warn Getliffe about. I confess I find it offensive. But modern thought on this kind of procedure apparently requires what they like to call “research” into the subject’s sexual life.’

Taken unawares, I grinned. ‘They won’t get much for their trouble,’ I said. ‘Francis married young, and they’ve lived happily ever after.’

I added: ‘But what are they going to ask?’

‘I’ve already suggested to them that it wouldn’t be tactful to bring up the subject to Sir Francis Getliffe himself. But they’ll feel obliged to scurry round his acquaintances and see if he’s liable to any kind of blackmail. That is, I take it, to find out whether he has mistresses, or other attachments. As you know, there is a curious tendency to assume that any homosexual attachment means that a man is probably a traitor. I must say, I should like them to sell that to — and—’

For once, Rose, the most discreet of men, was not at all discreet. He had given the names of a particularly tough Minister and of a high public servant.

‘I must say,’ I echoed him, ‘I should like someone to tell Francis that it was being seriously investigated whether he had homosexual attachments or not.’

The thought was not without humour.

But then I said: ‘Look here, I don’t think he’s going to endure this.’

‘He’s got to,’ said Rose, unyielding. ‘It’s intolerable, but it’s the way we live. I must ask you to ring him up tonight. You must talk to him before he hears from anyone else.’

There was a silence.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘I’m grateful,’ said Rose. ‘I’ve told you before, this was one reason why I had to talk to you today.’

‘What’s the other reason?’ I had been dense, but suddenly I knew.

‘The other reason, I’m afraid, is that the same procedure is to be applied to you.’

I exclaimed. My temper boiled up. I was outraged.

‘I’m sorry, Eliot,’ said Rose.

For years he had called me by my Christian name. Now, telling me this news, he felt as much estranged as when we first met. He had never really liked me. Over the years, we had established colleague-like relations, some sort of respect, some sort of trust. I had given him a little trouble, because, in an irregular position, I had taken liberties which a career civil servant could not, or would not, think of taking. Things I had said and written hadn’t been easy for him. He had ‘picked up the pieces’, not good-humouredly, but according to his obligation. Now, at last he hadn’t been able to protect me, as, by his sense of fitness, he should have protected a colleague. He felt something like dishonoured, leaving me exposed. As a consequence, he liked me less than he had ever done.