Charles Snow - The Conscience of the Rich

The morning had grown darker, and Sir Philip switched on the reading lamp above his desk. The minutes passed; he looked at the clock and talked in agitation; Mr March was possessed by his thoughts. Sir Philip looked at the clock again, and said irritably: ‘Whatever happens to me, I won’t have this fellow Getliffe putting a foot in. I won’t find a penny for his wretched case and I want to warn him off the business altogether.’

Mr March, as though he had scarcely heard, said yes. Knowing Getliffe better than they did, I said the only method was to prove to him that any conceivable case had a finite risk of involving the Pauls, and in the end himself. I thought that that was so, and that I could convince Getliffe of it. Sir Philip at once gave me the file, and Mr March asked me to go home with him shortly and pick up the last letter. They were tired of trouble. They forgot this last nuisance as soon as the file was in my hand.

The minutes ticked on. Sir Philip complained: ‘It can’t take a fellow all this time to walk round from Downing Street. These messengers have been slackers ever since I’ve known them.’

At length we heard a shuffle, a mutter of voices, in the secretary’s room. A tap on the door, and Williams came in, carrying a red oblong despatch box.

‘This has just come from the Prime Minister, sir.’ He placed it on the table in front of Sir Philip. The red lid glowed under the lamp.

Sir Philip said sharply: ‘Well, well, where is the key?’

‘Surely you have it, sir?’

‘Never, man, I’ve never had it. I remember giving it to you the last time a box arrived. After I opened it, I remember giving it to you perfectly well.’

‘I’m certain that I remember your keeping the key after you opened that box, sir. I’m almost certain you put it on your key ring—’

‘I tell you I’ve never had the key in my possession for a single moment. You’ve been in charge of it ever since you’ve been in that office. I want you to find it now—’

Williams had blushed to his neck and ears. For him that was the intolerable moment of the morning. He went out. Sir Philip and Mr March were left to look at the red box glowing under the light. Sir Philip swore bitterly.

It was some minutes before Williams returned. ‘I’ve borrowed this’ — he said, giving a small key to Sir Philip — ‘from Sir —’ (the Cabinet Minister).

‘Very well, very well. Now you’d better go and find mine.’ Williams left before Sir Philip had opened the box and the envelope inside. As soon as he began to read, his expression gave the answer.

‘It’s the sack, of course,’ he said.

He spoke slowly: ‘He’s pretty civil to me. He says that I shan’t mind giving up my job to a younger man.’

He added: ‘I didn’t bank on going out like this.’

Mr March said: ‘Nor did I ever think you would.’

Then Sir Philip spoke as though he were recalling his old, resilient tone. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a good deal to clear up today. I want to leave things shipshape. You’ll look after that fellow Getliffe, Eliot? We don’t want any more talk. This will be in the papers tonight. After that they’ll forget about me soon enough.’

In the middle of this new active response, he seemed to feel back to his brother’s remark. He said to Mr March with brotherly, almost protective kindness: ‘Don’t take it too much to heart, Leonard. It might be worse.’

‘I’m grateful for your consideration,’ cried Mr March. ‘But it would never have happened but for my connections.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Sir Philip. ‘That’s as may be.’

He spoke again to his brother, stiffly but kindly: ‘I know you feel responsible because of Charles’ wife. That young woman’s dangerous, and we shan’t be able to see much of her in the family after this. But I shouldn’t like you to do anything about Charles on my account. It can’t be any use.’

Mr March said: ‘Nothing can be any use now.’

Sir Philip said: ‘Well, then. Leave it alone.’

Mr March replied, in a voice firm, resonant, and strong: ‘No. I must do what I have to do.’

As soon as we left the office, Mr March reminded me that I was to come home with him to get Getliffe’s last letter. He was quick and energetic in his movements; the slowness of despair seemed to have left him; outside in the street, he called for a taxi at the top of his voice, and set off in chase of it like a young man.

We drove down Whitehall. Mr March remarked: ‘I presume this is the last occasion when I shall go inside those particular mausoleums. I cannot pretend that will be a hardship for me personally. Though for anyone like my brother Philip, who had ambitions in this direction, it must be an unpleasant wrench to leave.’

I was amazed at his matter-of-fact tone, at the infusion of cheerfulness and heartiness which I had not heard in him for many weeks. He had spoken of his brother with his old mixture of admiration, envy, sense of unworthiness, and detached incredulity, incredulity that a man should choose such a life. He had spoken as he might have done in untroubled days. It was hard to remember his silent anguish an hour before in Sir Philip’s room. He said: ‘I shall want to speak to my son Charles this morning.’

His tone was still matter-of-fact. He said that he would ring Charles up as soon as he got home. Then he talked of other things, all the way to Bryanston Square. The end had come and he was released. He was flooded by a rush of power. He could go through with it, he knew. He could act as though of his own free will. It set him speaking cheerfully and heartily.

He took me into his study. He gave me Getliffe’s letter and said casually: ‘I hope you will be able to settle the fellow for us.’ Then he asked: ‘Are you sufficiently familiar with my son’s efforts as a practitioner to know where he is to be found at this time in the morning?’ It was ten past twelve.

‘He’s usually back from his rounds about half past,’ I said.

‘I will telephone him shortly,’ said Mr March. ‘I shall require to see him before luncheon.’

He asked me to excuse him, and rang up, not Charles, but the family solicitor. Mr March said that he needed to transact some business in the early afternoon. The solicitor tried to put off the appointment until later in the day, but Mr March insisted that it must be at half past two. ‘I shall be having luncheon alone,’ he said on the telephone. ‘I propose to come directly afterwards to your office. My business may occupy a considerable portion of the afternoon.’

When that was settled, Mr March talked to me for a few minutes. He enquired, with his usual consideration, about my career, but for the most part he wanted to talk of Charles. What would his future be? What society was he intending to move in? Would he make any headway as a practitioner? I told him about the letter to the Lancet . Even at that moment, he was full of pride. ‘Not that I expect for a minute it is of any value,’ he said. ‘But nevertheless it shows that he may not be prepared to vegetate.’ He sat and considered, on his lips a sad but genuine smile, with no trace of rancour.

‘It would be a singular circumstance,’ said Mr March, ‘if he contributed something after all.’

It was time for him to ring up Charles. When he got an answer, his expression suddenly became fixed. I guessed that he was hearing Ann’s voice. ‘This is Leonard March,’ he said, not greeting her. ‘I wish urgently to speak to my son.’ There was a pause before he spoke to Charles. ‘If it is not inconvenient for you, I should like you to come here without delay.’ Mr March did not say any more to Charles. To me he said: ‘No doubt it is inconvenient for him, my requiring his presence in this manner.’ He paused. ‘But I shall make no further demands upon his time.’