Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

Nevertheless, as Charles spoke of her, there was a trace of envy in his voice. Partly because he might be losing her; but mainly, I thought that night, because she had been taken up by an overmastering emotion, because she had lost herself and been swept away.

We talked until late: of Katherine, Francis, Mr March, my work, and again of the books he had been reading. He had no news of his own.

At last we tiptoed up the broad slippery staircase, and went to our rooms. But in my case not to sleep, immediately at least; for the bedrooms at Haslingfield carried comfort to such a point that it was difficult to sleep at all.

There was a rack of books, picked by Charles, several of which were just out — a Huxley, the latest of the Scott-Moncrieff translations, the books we had talked about that afternoon. There was a plate of sandwiches, a plate of fruit, a plate of biscuits. A Thermos flask of tea and one of iced lemonade. A small bottle of brandy. After one had had a snack, read a book or two, and finished off the drinks, one could snatch a few hours’ sleep — until, quite early in the morning, a footman began padding about the room, taking out clothes and drawing curtains. Which for me, who liked sleeping in the dark, finished the night for good.

There was nothing for it but to get up. Although I arrived in the breakfast-room early, one place at the table had already been occupied; Mr March had been and gone. As I chose my breakfast from the dishes on the sideboard, I was puzzled for a moment. There were several plates of fried tongue, none of bacon. For a visitor used to rich houses, that was the only unfamiliar thing at Bryanston Square and Haslingfield.

Katherine and Charles both came down late to breakfast. Twice, while I was sitting alone, Mr March entered rapidly, said ‘Good morning’ without stopping, and changed the newspaper he was holding out in front of him; first The Times for the Daily Telegraph , and then the Daily Telegraph for the Manchester Guardian .

It was another hot day. Katherine was complaining at the prospect of her five-mile walk with Mr March before lunch; why does he insist on a companion, she said, pretending that she was only complaining as a joke. I thought that, as she waited for Francis to arrive, she did not relish being alone with Mr March. So I volunteered; and at exactly half past eleven we set off down the drive at Mr March’s walking pace, which was not less than four miles an hour. He wore his deerstalker, and before we had walked four hundred yards took it off, saying: ‘I must mop my bald pate.’ Several times he groaned, without slowing down: ‘I’m cracking up! I’m cracking up!’

Nothing interrupted his walking, he neither slackened nor quickened his pace. The only interruptions to his talking were those he made himself. His feats of total recall were as disconcerting as ever. For the first time I heard, out of the blue, the end of that gnomic story about his nephew Robert on the steps of the St James’s, which had tantalized me on my first visit to Bryanston Square. It appeared that Robert, tired of waiting for briefs, had taken to going to theatres, not just to pass the time or because of a disinterested passion for drama, but because he had conceived the idea of filling up his leisure by writing a play: all he was doing was study the technique. In Mr March’s view, this procedure was ill-judged, since he regarded it as axiomatic that Robert did not possess a shred of talent.

We turned at the lodge gates and made off by a path among the trees. Mr March chuckled and pointed back to the lodge.

‘My son Charles,’ he said, ‘got himself into an unfortunate predicament a fortnight ago last Saturday. I had Oliver Mendl staying with me for the weekend. Of course I knew that he obeyed the Lawgiver more strictly than I do myself. His father was just the same. When he visited us, I used to have to open his letters on Saturday morning. Though I noticed that he always read them quick enough if he thought they contained anything to his advantage. Oliver invited Charles to come for a stroll, and in the circumstances Charles couldn’t very well refuse. It looked very threatening that morning. I said so as soon as I woke up: I was ten minutes later than usual, because my daughter Katherine had kept me awake by inconsiderately having a bath before she went to bed the previous night. She accuses me of shouting through the wall “You’ve done me in. I shall never get to sleep again, never again”. I strongly advised them to take overcoats or at least umbrellas. However, they preferred their own opinion and they’d just reached the lodge when it started to rain with violence. The only drop of rain we’ve had since July 19: remember you’re only allowed four inches in your bath. Charles showed more gumption than you might expect: he suggested ringing up from the lodge and asking Taylor to bring a car. It might have been a ridiculous suggestion, of course: you can’t expect to get a car unless you make proper arrangements in advance. As it happened, Taylor was not occupied between 10.30 and 12 that morning. So Charles could have obtained his car, but unfortunately he didn’t. Because Oliver begged him to order the car for himself, but depressed Charles by adding: “Of course I can’t use it today, I shall have to walk.” The Lawgiver forbade people of my religion to make journeys on the Sabbath: why, I’ve never been able to understand. Well, though I oughtn’t to pay him compliments, my son Charles is a polite young man with people he doesn’t know well. Hannah says he isn’t, but she’s only seen him when she’s present herself. On this occasion he felt compelled to walk back with Oliver. We heard an infernal noise when they got back, and I went out and found him standing on a towel in the hall. He expressed himself angrily whenever I pointed out how he could have avoided disaster.’

Mr March was beaming with laughter. Then he added, quietly, and to my complete surprise: ‘Of course, he’s not bad-tempered as a rule. He wouldn’t have minded so much if it hadn’t been caused by the religion.’

He went on: ‘Herbert was the same forty years ago. At the time when he was getting up to his monkey tricks about studying music. He didn’t much like to be reminded that he belonged to our religion.’

Mr March added: ‘Of course, Herbert found that troubles of that nature passed away as he got older. I am inclined to think that the thickening of one’s skin is the only conceivable advantage of becoming old. If my son’s trouble was entirely due to his thin skin, I should cease to have periods of worry about him. But it isn’t so.’

Mr March talked no more on our walk home. We arrived at the house a few minutes before his standard time of 12.45, and found Katherine eating an early lunch before going out to meet Ann Simon.

Charles and I were alone at lunch with Mr March, who was still half-saddened, half-anxious, as he had been on the way home. I was certain by now that he was innocent about Katherine. As he talked to Charles, he had no thought of trouble from her. His concern was all for his son; he did not imagine any other danger to his peace of mind.

He told some stories, but they were shot through with his affection for Charles. Because he was in that mood, he told us more than I had heard of his early life. At once one knew, more sharply than on the day he watched Charles’ case, how much of himself he was re-creating in his son.

He described his own career. He talked, not as vivaciously as usual, but with his natural lack of pretence. ‘I never made much progress,’ he said.

His father and Philip’s, the first Sir Philip, had been the most effective of all the Marches; he had controlled the March firm of foreign bankers and brokers when it was at its peak. ‘And in my father’s days,’ said Mr March, ‘they counted as more than a business house. Of course it would be different now. Everything’s on too big a scale for a private firm. Look at the Rothschilds. They used to be the most influential family in Europe. And they’ve kept going after we finished, they’ve not done badly, and what are they now? Just merchant bankers in a fairly lucrative way of business.’