Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

‘Is he the man,’ said Charles, ‘who called you a radical reformer because you wanted to let women into the synagogue?’

‘Of course not,’ said Mr March. ‘In any case, that was Hannah’s fault. He proceeded to say: “You and your brothers did nothing to add to the family reputation. While among all your children and nephews and nieces, is there one who won’t subtract something from the family name? Think of your own children. Your son’s just an idler about town. One daughter married a man who lives by his pen. The other daughter has inflicted this great sorrow upon us. Whatever can happen to the next generation of Marches? What about your grandchildren?”’

‘I must say,’ said Charles, ‘that he sounds a vaguely disagreeable companion.’

‘He was just being frank,’ said Mr March.

‘If that’s frankness,’ said Charles, ‘give me a bit of dissimulation.’

‘It was possibly true,’ said Mr March, ‘though I thought it was rather pungently expressed. And I wished he had delivered himself before synagogue when it wasn’t raining.’

‘I am inclined to think,’ he added, ‘that he represents what a number of my acquaintances are saying.’

‘They’re not worth considering.’

‘No,’ said Mr March. ‘I can’t help considering anything that is said about the family’s position. These lamentations show how general opinion is preparing to dispose of the family. As I remarked previously, it’s curious to see such changes occur in my own life-time.’

Charles looked at him, astonished by the fortitude with which Mr March could see part of his world destroyed. He was realistic as ever: nostalgic also (for that was the other side of his realistic temperament), hankering after the world that was gone or going, but not pretending for a moment that it could be saved. His fortitude was stoical: but Charles knew there was nothing light about it. It came out in matter-of-fact terms, but it was only separated from melancholy because the pulse of his vitality was still throbbing deep and strong.

‘You might blame me more than you do,’ said Charles.

‘I don’t propose to,’ said Mr March. ‘I don’t know how much either you or I can be held to blame. In any case, I should not consider the investigation profitable. We have arrived at the position we are now in. And I lay no claim to a philosophical turn of mind, but I have noticed one result of things changing outside. One has to fall back on those attachments that can’t change so rapidly. After his daughter’s marriage and its regrettable consequences, Justin always devoted himself entirely to his wife.’

Mr March gazed at his son, and added: ‘Since I am deprived of other consolations, I find that I attach more value to your continued existence.’

For days afterwards, I kept trying to persuade Charles that now was the time to go to his father. Now if ever was the time. Sometimes he was nearly persuaded. Sometimes he advanced the old arguments. He was not obstinate, he was not resenting my intrusion. He was gripped by an indecision so deep that it seemed physical, not controllable by will. He said: ‘I admit that he spoke with complete sincerity. He always does. He desperately wants everything to be right between us. But you notice that he didn’t mention my marrying Ann? You noticed that, didn’t you?’

Katherine joined in my efforts, warmly, anxiously, emphatically, when she came to Bryanston Square for a weekend in February. It was two months since her honeymoon, and there was a physical change in her face, as though some of the muscles had been relaxed. She was tranquil, happy, more positive than we had known her. When Charles had told Mr March of his engagement, she had shown less than her usual insight; she had even expected Mr March to be pleased. But now she saw the situation with clear eyes. It was worth the risk, she argued; it was the one step which could set them free with each other.

Once she grew angry with Charles, and told him that he would surely do it if only Ann were not holding him back. Her concern was so naked and intimate that he did not take offence. She continued to persuade him. For half an hour one night, I thought she had succeeded. Then, suddenly, his mood changed. In fatigue and resignation, he said, smiling at her with extreme affection: ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’d do anything else. But I can’t do it.’

She knew that the decision was final. She called to see me the next evening in my rooms.

‘Lewis,’ she said, ‘I’ve asked Charles if he minds my speaking to Mr L.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He welcomed it. Oh, it’s wretched, don’t you think it’s wretched? He was within an inch of going himself, and yet he simply can’t. I’m appallingly diffident about talking to Mr L myself. But if I don’t, I should feel cowardly for ever. Don’t you agree?’

Katherine promised to return after she had talked to Mr March. I waited in a fret of apprehension, thinking time after time that it was her footsteps on the stairs. When she came at last, I knew that all had gone wrong.

She sat down heavily.

‘He was absolutely unreasonable,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t even begin to listen to reason. His mind seemed absolutely shut.’

She had told him that he could not treat Charles like a child; he was a grown man; this attempt to keep him dependent was bound to make a gulf between them. Mr March replied that he did not propose to let such considerations influence his actions. She had told him that his actions were stupid as well as wrong. They could not even have the practical effect he wanted. Charles was committed to becoming a doctor now; and he would marry Ann in April, come what might. Mr March replied that he was aware of these facts; he did not propose to discontinue Charles’ allowance, which might hinder his son’s activities, but he refused, by making him independent, to give any sign of approval to either of his major follies. Katherine begged him to think of his own future relations with Ann. She was going to be his daughter-in-law. For the rest of his life he would meet her. Mr March said that he did not propose to consider the opinions of that young woman on the matter.

He was not angry, but utterly set in his purpose. He even told her that he needed his son’s affection more than he had ever done; he said, quite naturally, that he had told Charles so. But, on the issue before them, he would not make the slightest concession.

‘I do not believe,’ Katherine burst out, ‘that it would have made any difference if Charles had gone himself. I shall always console myself with that. I tell you, I’m sure it’s true.’

She had finished by asking him to explain the contrast between his gentleness over her own marriage, and this fantastic harshness to Charles. Mr March had not answered for a long time. Then he said, in a sombre tone: ‘He was always my favourite child.’

Katherine stayed with me for a long time, in order to put off breaking the news to Charles.

Mr March’s seventieth birthday was due in the May of 1936, and for weeks beforehand he had been calling on his younger relatives and friends, insisting that they keep the night of the twenty-second free. It was the only birthday he had celebrated since he was a child; usually he would not have the day so much as mentioned. But some caprice made him want everyone to realize that he was seventy. Many of the very young had not seen him as extravagant as this.

They had heard the family legends of Uncle Leonard, but they had not often been inside his house, except for the formal Friday nights. Since the marriages of Katherine and Charles five years before, he had given up entertaining the young.