Charles Snow - Time of Hope

But that evening, as I told Marion, I could not see my way through. I could not understand George’s violence; I was wrapped in my own anxiety. As soon as I went into her sitting-room, Marion had looked at me, first with a smile, then with eyes sharp in concern.

‘What’s the matter, Lewis?’ she said abruptly.

‘I’ve run into some trouble,’ I said.

‘Serious?’

‘I expect I’ll get out of it.’

‘You’re looking drawn,’ said Marion. ‘Sit down and I’ll make you some tea.’

She lodged in the front room of a semi-detached house, in a neat privet-hedged street just at the beginning of the suburbs. The hedge was fresh clipped, the patch of grass carefully mown. She was only just returned from her holidays, and on her sofa there was a notebook open, in which she was preparing her lessons for the term. Outside in the sun, a butterfly was flitting over the privet hedge.

‘Why haven’t I seen you before?’ said Marion, kneeling by the gas ring. ‘Oh, never mind. I know you’re worried. Tell me what the trouble is.’

I did not need to explain it all, for she had written to me during her holiday and I had replied. On paper she was less brisk and nervous, much softer and more articulate. She had asked when I was going to ‘take the plunge’, assuming like everyone else that I was following George’s plan. In my reply I had told her, with jauntiness and confidence, that I had made up my mind to do something more difficult. She was the first person to whom I told as much. Even so, she complained in another letter about ‘your cryptic hints’, and as she gave me my cup of tea, and I was at last explicit about my intention, she complained again.

‘Why do you keep things to yourself?’ she cried. ‘You might have known that you could trust me, mightn’t you?’

‘Of course I trust you.’

‘I hope you do.’ She was sitting on the sofa, with the light from the window falling on her face, so that her eyes shone excessively bright. Her hair had fallen untidily over her forehead; she pushed it back impatiently, and impatiently said: ‘Never mind me. Is it a good idea?’ (She meant my reading for the Bar.)

‘Yes.’

‘No one else thinks so — is that the trouble?’ she said with startling speed.

‘Not quite.’ I would not admit my inner hesitations, the times that afternoon when my doubts were set vibrating by the others. Instead, I told her of the scene with George. I described it as objectively as I could, telling her of George’s shouts which still rang word for word in my ears. I left out nothing of his fury and distress, speculated about it, asked Marion if she could understand it.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Marion shortly. ‘George will get over it. I want to know about you. How much does it mean to you?’

Though she was devoted to George, she would not let me talk about him. Single-mindedly, with an intense single-mindedness that invaded my thoughts, she demanded to know how much I was dependent on George’s help. I answered that, without his coaching, I should find the work much more difficult, but not impossible; without a loan from him, I did not see how I could raise money even for my pupil’s year.

Marion was frowning.

‘I think you’ll get his help,’ she said.

She looked at me.

‘And if you don’t,’ she said, ‘shall you have to call it off?’

‘I shan’t do that.’

Still frowning, Marion inquired about George’s objections. How much was there in them? A great deal, I told her. She insisted that I should explain them; she knew so little of a career at the Bar. I did so, dispassionately and sensibly enough. It was easy at times to face objection after objection, to lay them down in public view like so many playing cards upon the table. It was some kind of comfort to put them down and inspect them, as though they were not part of oneself.

Marion asked sharply how I expected to manage. I said that there were one or two studentships and prizes, though very few, if I came out high in the Bar Finals. ‘Of course, you’re clever,’ said Marion dubiously. ‘But there must be lots of competition. From men who’ve had every advantage that you haven’t, Lewis.’

I said that I knew it. I mentioned Aunt Milly: with luck, I could conceivably borrow a hundred or two from her. That was all.

From across the little room, Marion was looking at me — not at my face, but looking me up and down, from head to foot.

‘How strong are you, Lewis?’ she said suddenly.

‘I shall survive,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you’re highly strung.’

‘I’m tougher than you think.’

‘You’re packed full of vitality, I’ve told you that. But, unless you’re careful, aren’t you going to burn yourself out?’

She got up from the sofa and sat on a chair near mine.

‘Listen to me,’ she said urgently, gazing into my eyes. ‘I wish you well. I wish you very well. Is it worth it? It’s no use killing yourself. Why not swallow your pride and do what they want you to do? It’s the sensible thing to do after all, And it isn’t such a bad alternative, Lewis. It will give you a comfortable life — you might even make another start from there. It won’t take anything like so much out of you. You’ll have time for everything else you like.’

My hand was resting on the arm of my chair. She pressed hers upon it: her palm was very warm.

I met her gaze, and said: ‘Do you think that I’m cut out to be a lawyer in a provincial town?’

She left her hand on mine, but her eyes shrank away.

‘All I meant was — you mustn’t damage yourself.’

Wretched after my day, I wanted to leave her. But before I went she made me promise that I would report what Eden said next, whether George came round. ‘You must tell me,’ said Marion. ‘I want to know. You mustn’t let me think I shouldn’t have spoken. I couldn’t help it — but I want everything you want, you know that, don’t you?’

In fact, I soon had good news to tell Marion — and I did so at once, to make amends for having been angry with her. This time she did not stop me describing both George’s words and Eden’s.

George had spoken to me, only three or four days after our quarrel, stiffly, still half-furiously, in great embarrassment. He could not withdraw any single part of his criticisms. He regarded me as lost to reason; but, having once encouraged me to choose a career and offered his help, he felt obliged to honour his word. He would be behind me, so far as lay in his power. If I wanted money, he would do his best, though I must not count on much. He would, naturally, coach me in private for the Bar examinations. ‘I refuse to listen to any suggestion that you won’t find the blasted examinations child’s play,’ said George robustly. ‘That’s the one item in the whole insane project that I’m not worrying about. As for the rest, you’ve heard my opinions. I propose from now on to keep them to myself.’

He spoke with a curious mixture of stubborn irritation, diffidence, rancour, magnanimity, and warmth. I was disarmed and overjoyed.

As for Eden, when I told him that I had not changed my mind, he shook his head, and said: ‘Well, I suppose young men must have their fling. If you are absolutely determined to run your head against a brick wall, I shan’t be able to stop you.’ That did not prevent him from giving me a series of leisurely sensible homilies; but he was willing to sign my certificates of character and to introduce me to a barrister. He wrote the letter of introduction on the spot (there were one or two technical difficulties about my getting admitted to an Inn). The name on the envelope was Herbert Getliffe.