Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

Some of the column writers made references. One or two weekly papers, on the extreme right as well as the left, let themselves go. It did not seem to amount to much.

About three weeks after the article came out, however, there were rumours of changes in the government. The political correspondents began tipping their fancies. No one suggested that the changes had anything to do with the Note ’s article; it was not even explicitly denied. In private the gossips were speculating whether Hawtin would be ‘out’ or whether he would lose his promotion. He was disliked, he was cold and self-righteous; but to put him out now, after his stand on Spain, would look like a concession to the left. As for Sir Philip, his name was not canvassed much. He had never been a figure in politics; he was old and had no future. The only flicker of interest in him, apart from the scandal, was because he was a Jew.

Meanwhile, Herbert Getliffe was showing the resource and pertinacity that most people missed unless they knew him well. He had a streak of revengefulness, and he was determined that his enemies should pay. He knew that neither Hawtin nor Philip March would bring an action; nor could the Pauls without more damage to himself. So Getliffe concentrated on the minor figures, S…, H… He worked out that there was a good chance of one of them bringing an action which need involve no one else.

He wrote to Sir Philip, suggesting that they should promote an action in H…’s name. Sir Philip replied curtly that the less said or done, the better. Despite the rebuff, Getliffe approached Mr March, to persuade him to influence his brother; and, leaving nothing to chance, he sent me the outline of the case.

Mr March and Sir Philip each snubbed him again. Getliffe, suggestible as he was when one met him face to face, was utterly impervious when on the make. He wrote to them in detail; he added that I should be familiar with the legal side, if they wanted an opinion; he wrote to me twice, begging me to do my best.

The March brothers were not weak characters, but, like most men, they could be hypnotized by persistence. Ill-temperedly Mr March arranged for me to meet him one morning at Sir Philip’s office — ‘to discuss the proposals which Getliffe is misguidedly advancing and which are, in my view, profoundly to be regretted at the present juncture’.

That morning when I was due to meet them, a drizzling November day, I opened The Times and saw, above a column in the centre page, ‘Changes in the Government’. Sir Philip’s name was not among them. Hawtin was promoted to full cabinet rank; to make room for him, someone was sent to the Lords. A Parliamentary Secretary and an Under-Secretary were shelved, in favour of two backbenchers. It was difficult to read any meaning into the changes. Hawtin’s promotion might be a brushing-off of the scandal, a gesture of confidence, or a move to the right. The other appointments were neutral. At the end of the official statement, there was a comment that more changes would be announced shortly.

I arrived at the room of Sir Philip’s secretary a little before my time. He was pretending to work, as I sat looking out at the park. The rain seeped gently down; after the brilliant autumn, the leaves had not yet fallen and shone dazzlingly out of the grey, mournful, misty morning. I heard the rain seep down, and the nervous, restless movements of the young man behind me. He was on edge with nerves: Sir Philip’s fate did not matter to him, but he had become infected by the tension. He was expecting a telephone call from Downing Street. Soon he stopped work, and in his formal, throaty, sententious voice (the voice of a man who was going to enjoy every bit of pomp and circumstance in his official life) asked me whether I had studied the government changes, and what significance I gave them. He was earnest, ambitious, self-important: yet each time the telephone rang his face was screwed up with excitement, like that of a boy who is being let into an adult’s secret. As each call turned out to be a routine enquiry, his voice went flat with anti-climax. As soon as Mr March came in, Williams showed us into Sir Philip’s room. Before we entered, Mr March had time only to shake hands and say that he was obliged to me for coming — but even in that time I could see his face painful with hope, his resignation broken, every hope and desire for happiness evoked again by the news that Hawtin was safe. Sir Philip’s first words were, after greeting us both:

‘I suppose you saw in the papers that Hawtin’s still in? They’ve given him a leg-up.’

‘I was considering what effect it would have on your prospects,’ said Mr March.

‘It won’t be long before I know. This means they’re not going to execute us, anyway,’ said Sir Philip, with a cackle which did not conceal that he too felt relief, felt active hope. ‘As for Alex Hawtin, he’s doing better for himself than he deserves. Still, he can’t be worse than old…’ Sir Philip broke off, and looked at us across his desk. He had dressed with special care that day, and with a new morning suit was wearing a light-blue, flowing silk tie. It was incongruous, against the aged yellow skin. Yet, even about his face, there was something jaunty still.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I wanted to consult you about this fellow Getliffe. He’s got hold of someone called Huff or Hough — who must be a shady lot himself, judging from the book of words — and they want to bring a libel action if they can get financial support — I needn’t go over the ground again. You’ve seen it for yourselves, I gather.’

‘I received another effusion from Herbert Getliffe yesterday,’ said Mr March, ‘which I regret to say I have omitted to bring. It did not add anything substantial to his previous lucubrations.’

‘And you’re familiar with it, Eliot?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

Sir Philip suddenly snapped: ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with the fellow. No good can come of it. I won’t touch anything he’s concerned with.’

Anxiety and hope had made his temper less equable.

‘I concur in your judgement,’ said Mr March. ‘The fellow is a pestilential nuisance.’

‘I want to stop his damned suggestions,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Where are they? Why isn’t the file here?’

He pushed the button on his desk, and the secretary entered. Sir Philip was just asking for the Getliffe file when in the outer office the telephone rang. ‘Will you excuse me while I answer it, sir?’ said Williams officiously, once more excited. After he went away, we could hear his voice through the open door. ‘Yes, this is Sir Philip March’s secretary… Yes… Yes, I will give him that message… Yes, he will be ready to receive the letter.’

Williams came in, and said with formality: ‘It was a message from the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary, sir. It was to say that a letter from the Prime Minister is on its way.’

Sir Philip nodded. ‘Do you wish me to stay, sir?’ said Williams hopefully.

‘No,’ said Sir Philip in an absent tone. ‘Leave the Getliffe file. I’ll ring if I need you.’

As soon as the door was closed, Mr March cried: ‘What does it mean? What does it mean?’

‘It may mean the sack,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Or it may mean they’re offering me another job.’

At that instant Mr March lost the last particle of hope.

Sir Philip, meeting his brother’s despairing gaze, went on stubbornly: ‘If he is offering me another job, I shall have to decide whether to turn it down or not. I should like a rest, of course, but after this brouhaha I should probably consider it my duty to accept it. I should want your advice, Leonard, before I let him have his answer.’

Mr March uttered a sound, half-assent, half-groan.