Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

Mr March broke off his story, hesitated, and watched them. As Mr March stared at Ann, the room happened to become quiet. Mr March said loudly: ‘I’ve scarcely spoken to my future daughter-in-law. I must go and have a word with her.’

Slightly flushed, he crossed the room, swinging his arms in his quick, awkward gait.

‘Why haven’t you talked to me, young woman? Why am I being deserted on this public occasion?’

He took her to the centre of the carpet, and there they stood.

Mr March showed no sign at all of the gallant, elaborately courteous manner which he had first used to her in company. He was speaking to her, here in public view, intimately, simply, brusquely.

‘I shall have to see about your own wedding before long,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Ann.

‘The sooner the better,’ said Mr March. ‘Since we are to be related in this manner.’

Ann looked at him. His expression had become sad and resigned. His head was bent down in a posture unlike his normal one, a posture dejected, subdued.

‘Now, whatever happens,’ he said, ‘we must bear with each other.’

Ann was still looking at him, and he took her hand. They went on talking, and some of us moved towards them. Katherine began teasing him about arranging another wedding in the middle of this. For a second he was silent, then he straightened himself and recovered his gaiety. Katherine was continuing to talk of weddings, funerals, and Mr March’s Times reading habits.

‘You can’t help paying attention to them,’ he told her, ‘when you reach my venerable years. I’ve attended a considerable number of both in my time. And I’ve also been informed of a great many births. Most of the results of which survived,’ Mr March reflected. ‘Even my cousin Oscar’s child — even that lived long enough for me to give it the usual mug.’

After Katherine’s wedding it seemed as though Mr March was groping round to heal the breach with his son. We had watched him cross the room to Ann at the wedding breakfast; he was acting not happily, not with an easy mind, but impelled to remove some of the weight that had for months, even through the excitement over Katherine, been pressing him down.

I intruded so far as to tell Charles that he ought to forget the night of the concert, and meet his father more than halfway. Charles himself was happy in the prospect of his marriage, which was fixed for three months ahead. He was also gratified that he could discipline himself enough to work patiently at his medicine; he had done it for a year, and he had no misgivings left. So that he was ready to listen to everything I said. His natural kindness, his deep feeling for his father now shone out. He wanted Mr March to be happy for the rest of his life. He would respond to any overture his father made. I tried to persuade him to go to his father, on his own initiative, and ask to be made independent. I did not need to give him reasons. Speaking to him, I had no sort of foresight. If I had been asked, I should just have said that if a man like Charles had to put up with domination, no good could come of it.

‘Do it,’ I pressed him, ‘as though nothing had been said. As though the question hadn’t ever been mentioned before. I believe that he will agree. He’s in danger of losing more than you are, you know.’

Charles knew all that I meant. But he hesitated. As we talked his face became lined. If Mr March refused, the situation was worse than before. If Mr March refused, it would be even harder for Ann. They would know that all that was left was to put a civil face on things.

Nevertheless, I pressed him to go. He promised everything else but would not definitely promise that.

Then Mr March himself showed us the colour of his thoughts when he talked to Charles one Friday night in January.

It was Mr March’s turn that night to give the family dinner party, and he invited me without any prompting, saying: ‘You might oblige me by filling one of the gaps at my table.’ He had never done so before; I felt the invitation on his own account marked a break with things Mr March had known.

The dinner party itself had changed since the first I went to. It was neither so lively nor so large. There were only eighteen people this time sitting round the great table at Bryanston Square. Some of the absences were caused by illness, as Mr March’s generation was getting old; Herbert had just had a thrombosis. Florence Simon was married now, and living out of London. While Katherine’s marriage not only kept her away, but at least two of Mr March’s cousins.

Philip’s glance went round the room, noticing those relatives who had attended his own house the week before but who had not come that night. He said nothing of it to Mr March, and instead chaffed him, as he had done at the wedding, with the dry, elder-brotherly friendliness that had been constant all their lives. But even Philip’s sharp tongue did not make the party go; family gossip never began to flow at its usual rate; by a quarter to eleven the last car had driven away.

Mr March came into the drawing-room, where Charles and I were sitting. We were sitting as we had been on the night of Charles’ quarrel with his father, after that different dinner party three years before. Mr March sat down and stretched out his hands to the fire.

‘I never expected to see a Friday night in my own house finished in time for me to have only ten minutes less than my usual allowance,’ he said.

‘Mr L,’ said Charles, ‘don’t you remember saying they were nothing like they used to be, even in Uncle Philip’s house? You said that months ago.’

‘I appreciate your intention,’ said Mr March, ‘but I am unable to accept it entirely. I never expected to find myself in danger of being in Justin’s position. After his daughter’s marriage he did not venture to hold a Friday night until we were able to reassure him that there would be an adequate attendance. Which we were unable to do until a considerable number of years afterwards. I confess that I am surprised at not having a similar experience.’

‘They respect you too much to treat you in the same way,’ said Charles.

‘It’s not respect,’ said Mr March. ‘It’s the family that has changed. It’s curious to see the family changing in my own life-time. I’ve already seen most things pass that we used to regard as completely permanent features of the world.’

He spoke, with regret, in a matter-of-fact, acceptant, almost cheerful tone. He added: ‘As for respect, the nearest I approach it is that at synagogue people are always ready to commiserate on the misfortunes which have happened to me through my children. Last Saturday one fellow insisted on keeping me talking in the rain. He said: “Mr March, I should like you to know I am as upset as you must be to see the Marches fall from their old position.” I acknowledged his remark. The fellow was making it impossible for me to cover myself with my umbrella. He said: “We all feel the decline of our great houses.” I said that it was very civil of him. He said: “Think of your family. Your father was a great man. And his brothers were known outside our community. But your generation, Mr March — I know you will excuse me for speaking frankly — you have just been living on the esteem of your father. What have any of you done compared with the old Marches?” I brought up the name of my brother Philip, but this man replied: “He was lucky enough to be the eldest son of your father. That’s all. And you and your brothers weren’t even that, again speaking frankly, Mr March.”’

‘Who was this man?’ Charles asked.

‘I refuse to disclose his name,’ said Mr March, still reporting the conversation in such a matter-of-fact way that Charles had to follow suit.