Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

They all waited for me.

I said: ‘I’ve already said what I think — to Ann.’

‘What did you say?’ cried Katherine.

‘I said she ought to go to Charles and tell him she wanted to call it off.’

I spoke directly to Charles: ‘I should like to ask you something. Will you and Ann talk the whole matter over for the last time?’

He smiled at me and said, without hesitation: ‘No, Lewis.’ He added, for my benefit alone: ‘She did that through you.’

Katherine and Francis exchanged a glance. Francis said: ‘There it is. It’s no use going on. But we must say this. If Ann doesn’t stop this business, we shan’t be able to meet her. Obviously, we shan’t want to create any embarrassment. If we meet socially, we shall put a decent face on it. But we shall not be able to meet her in private.’

‘You know that must include me,’ said Charles.

‘I was afraid you would take it that way,’ said Francis.

Charles said: ‘There’s no other way to take it.’

‘No,’ said Francis.

‘I think you are being just,’ Charles said in a level and passionless voice. ‘All I can say is this: from you both I hoped for something different from justice. Once, if I had been in your place, I should have done as you are doing. I think perhaps I shouldn’t now.’

He added: ‘It is hard to lose you. It always will be.’

His energy had ebbed away for a moment.

He sat down. We made some kind of conversation. Ten minutes passed before Mr March came in.

‘I should be obliged,’ he said, ‘if I could have a word with my daughter.’

‘I’m afraid that I’ve given her my answer,’ said Charles.

‘I assumed that you knew what she was asking me,’ said Charles. ‘I’m afraid that I’ve given her my answer.’

He had risen as Mr March came in, and they stood face to face by the window, away from the fireplace and the small tea-table, round which the rest of us were still sitting. They stood face to face, Charles some inches taller than his father, his hair catching the sunlight as it had done years before in the examination hall. Against him his father stood, his head less erect, his whole bearing in some way unprepared.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ said Mr March.

‘You’ll hear it from Katherine as soon as I’ve gone. Don’t you admit that you will? Isn’t it better for me to tell you myself?’

‘I refuse to hear anything further until your wife has completely recovered,’ said Mr March. ‘I don’t regard you as in a fit state to make a decision.’

‘I should make the same decision whether she’s ill or well,’ said Charles. ‘I shan’t change my mind.’

‘What is it?’ said Mr March, in despair.

‘You don’t want me to say much, do you? Katherine has heard it all. All I need say is that, now she’s heard it, she and Francis don’t wish to meet me again.’

‘I knew it,’ said Mr March. They looked at each other.

‘You can endure being lonely?’ Mr March said at last, still in a subdued voice.

‘I can endure that kind of loneliness.’

‘Then it’s useless to ask you to consider mine.’

Charles did not reply at once, and Mr March for the first time raised his voice.

‘It’s useless to ask you to consider my loneliness. I suppose I had better be prepared to take the only steps which are open to me.’

‘I’m afraid that is for you to decide.’

‘You know,’ cried Mr March, ‘I’m not telling you anything original. You know the position you are placing me in. You’re forcing me to deprive myself of my son.’

We each knew that this quarrel was different from those in the past. Always before, Mr March had a power over his son. Now it had gone. Mr March knew: he could not admit it, and his anger rose at random, wildly, without aim.

‘You’re forcing me,’ he shouted, ‘to deprive myself of my son. If this outrage happens’ — he was clinging to a last vestige of hope — ‘if this outrage happens, I shall be compelled to take a step which you will recognize.’

‘It won’t matter to me, don’t you realize that?’

‘Nothing that I possess will come to you. You will be compelled to recognize what you’ve done after my death,’ said Mr March.

‘I’m sorry, but that doesn’t matter.’

Suddenly Katherine cried out: ‘Father, why ever didn’t you make him independent? When he wanted to marry? I told you at the time it wouldn’t be the same between you. Do you remember?’

Mr March turned towards the fireplace, and rounded on her with fury: ‘I only consider it necessary to remind you of what my Uncle Justin said to his daughter.’ For a second all his anger was diverted to her. ‘I reproach myself that I allowed you to make representations between myself and my son.’

‘She did her best,’ said Charles. ‘She tried to bring us together. She tried her best to keep me in your will.’

‘Charles!’ Katherine cried. He had spoken with indifference: but she cried out as though he had been brutal. Mr March ignored her, and returned to face Charles.

‘I should never have spoken of money,’ he said, ‘if I could have relied on your affection.’

For the first time, as they stood there, Charles’ face softened.

‘My affection was greater than you were ever ready to admit,’ he said. ‘Did you hear me speak to you, the night Ann was taken ill? That was true.’

Mr March’s voice rang in our ears: ‘There’s only one thing you can say that I’m prepared to hear.’

Charles had not recovered himself. He said: ‘That’s impossible for me.’

‘Do you consider it more impossible than destroying my family? And showing your utter ingratitude as a son? And condemning yourself to squalor now and after I am dead? And leaving me with nothing to live for in the last years of my life?’

Charles did not answer. Mr March went on: ‘Do you consider it is more impossible than what you’re bringing about?’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Charles.

The tone of that reply affected Mr March. Since he appealed to Charles’ affection, he had reached his son. As though interpreting Charles’ reply, which was loaded with remorse, Mr March spoke of Ann.

‘If you hadn’t married your wife,’ Mr March said, ‘you would have given a different answer. She is responsible for your unnatural attitude.’

Immediately Charles’ manner reverted to that in which he had begun; he became hard again, passionate, almost gay.

‘I am responsible for everything I’ve done,’ he said. ‘You know that. Don’t you know that?’

‘I refuse to accept your assurance.’

‘You know that it’s true,’ said Charles.

‘If she hadn’t begun this outrage, you would never have believed it possible,’ Mr March exclaimed. ‘If she had desisted, you would have been relieved and—’

‘If she had died, you mean. If she had died.’ The word crashed out. ‘That’s what you mean.’

Mr March’s head was sunk down.

‘You were wrong. You’ve never been so wrong,’ said Charles. ‘I tell you this. If she had died, I wouldn’t have raised a finger to save you trouble. I should have let it happen.’

The sound died away. The room rested in silence. Charles turned from his father, and glanced indifferently, slackly, across the room, as though he were exhausted by his outburst, as though it had left him without anger or interest.

As Charles turned away, Mr March walked from the window towards us by the fireplace. His face looked suddenly without feeling or expression.

He settled in an armchair; as he did so, his foot touched the tea-table, and I noticed the Tinker-Bell reflections, set dancing on the far wall.