He spread himself on anecdotes: his talent for total recall was in good working order: there was plenty of laughter. I looked at Francis. It happened that just at that time there was a disagreement between us: we had been divided by a piece of college politics. But still, as our glances met, we had a fellow-feeling. In that sumptuous dinner party, we should have been hard put to it to say why we were so uncomfortable, when Mr March himself was not. Perhaps we had counted on giving him support, which he would not take.
Towards the end of dinner, Mr March drank my health, and, still holding his glass, got into spate: ‘On the occasion of Lewis Eliot first giving me the pleasure of his company in this house, I observed to my daughter Katherine that no proper preparations had been taken for the eventuality that he might prove to be a teetotaller. I failed to observe to my daughter Katherine on the identical anniversary that no proper precautions had been taken for the eventuality that Leonard might not be disposed to welcome a four-foot-high teddy-bear.’
‘Who mightn’t like a teddy-bear?’ someone cried, apparently nervous in case Mr March was talking of himself.
‘My grandson Leonard, of course,’ shouted Mr March. ‘The anniversary of whose birth, which took place last week, coincides as to day and month, but not however as to year, with that of the first visit of Lewis Eliot to my house. Of course, the opposite mistake used to be made with even more distressing consequences, though naturally not by my daughter Katherine.’
‘What mistake?’
‘Of teetotallers not making adequate provision for non-teetotallers, as opposed to the hypothetical reception of Lewis Eliot, as previously mentioned. On accepting hospitality from my second cousin Archibald Waley I constantly found myself in an intolerable dilemma. Not owing to his extraordinary habit of gnashing his teeth which was owing to a physiological peculiarity and unconnected with any defects of temperament which he nevertheless possessed, and demonstrated by his lamentable behaviour over his expulsion from Alfred Hart’s club during a certain disagreement. My intolerable dilemma was of a different nature. I used to present myself at his house – Philip used to say that it was the most inconvenient house in Kensington – and we used to make our entrance into the dining-room in a perfectly orthodox manner that I could see no reason for objecting to. Then however we were confronted as we sat down in our places with a printed card which I have always regarded as the height of bad form, and which did not improve the situation by informing us that we were required to assimilate nine courses. It is perhaps common fairness to point out that at the relevant period it was customary to provide more elaborate refreshments than the fork-suppers we’ve all taken to fobbing off on our guests.’
‘Was this a fork supper, Mr L?’ asked a niece, waving at the plates.
‘I don’t know what else you’d call it,’ said Mr March. ‘The over-ostentation of the provender was nevertheless not the main point at issue. One could possibly have contemplated nine courses until one was discouraged by hearing the footman ask “What would you like to drink, sir?” One then enquired for possible alternatives and was given the choice “Orangeade, lemonade, lemon squash, lime juice, ginger beer, ginger ale, barley water…” It was always said that when Herbert dined there he put a flask of brandy in his trouser pocket and made an excuse to go to the lavatory at least twice during the proceedings.’ Mr March raised his voice above questions, comments, grins:
‘The presumed discomfort to Lewis Eliot as a teetotaller entering this, a non-teetotal house, was in my judgement less than that experienced by myself at Archibald Waley’s.’ He added: ‘In practice, Lewis Eliot turned out not to be a teetotaller at all. As could have been ascertained from the person instrumental in giving me the pleasure of his company. That person being my son Charles.’
No one said anything. Mr March went on: ‘At that time there was nothing to prevent me communicating with my son Charles. However, I did not, at least upon the point under discussion.’
He said it with absolute stoicism. It was a stoicism which stopped any of us taking up the reference to Charles, or mentioning him again.
I left early, before any of the others. In the square it was cold enough to take one’s breath, and in the wind the stars flashed and quivered above the tossing trees. Trying to find a taxi, I walked along the pavement, across the end of the square, as I had walked with Charles after my first visit to the house, listening to him talk about his father. I was not thinking of them, though: my thoughts had gone to my own house. Just for a random instant, I recalled our housekeeper running down the local doctors, and then admitting, in a querulous, patronizing fashion, that some people in Pimlico spoke of Charles March as a good doctor, and seemed to trust him now. That thought did not last: it drifted into others of our housekeeper, my own home.
Standing at the corner, I stamped my feet, waiting for a taxi. Through the bare trees of the garden, I could see a beam of light, as the door of Mr March’s house opened, letting out some more of his guests. Soon the party would be over. He would test the latches and switch off the lights: then he would be left in his own company.
Since the first instalment in the
Note
, Charles and Mr March had not met nor spoken to each other. Charles had, however, telephoned to Katherine after the visit to Seymour. He had told her, so I gathered, that Ann had done her best to call the paper off. Whether either Katherine or Mr March believed this, I had no means of judging. But they knew I had been present. Within a few days I received a letter from Mr March, telling me that he needed my ‘friendly assistance’: would I lunch with him at his club, so that we could go together to Sir Philip’s office afterwards.
The club servants were surprised to see Mr March there in the month of August, having got used to the clockwork regularity of his life; he had not left Haslingfield during his summer stay for twenty years. Just as, though he went to the club for tea each day he was in London, he had not lunched there since Charles was a child. He did not know where or how to write his order, and had to be helped by the servants. They teased him for it: he, usually so uncondescending, was gruff with them.
He said little at the meal. We had a table to ourselves, but those round us were soon filled. I saw one or two faces I knew, all of civil servants from the departments close by. I felt that Mr March, unable to talk of the bitter anxiety in his mind, was also depressed because he recognized so few. There were only two men he nodded to, and they were very old.
In Pall Mall, on our way to Sir Philip’s ministry, he tried to rouse himself from his gloom. We turned into St James’s Park towards Whitehall, and Mr March looked over the trees at the dome of the India Office, the roofs and towers, all soft and opal grey in the moist sunlight.
‘I must say,’ he remarked, ‘that it looks comparatively presentable. But I have never been able to understand the fascination which makes my brother Philip and others wish to spend their entire lives in this neighbourhood. I once said as much to Hannah, and she replied that it was sour grapes on my part. No doubt I was envious on account of my failure to cut any kind of figure in the world. Nevertheless, Lewis, if I hadn’t been a failure, and had been given my choice of where to have a reasonable success, I should not have chosen this particular neighbourhood.’
His face darkened in a scowl of misery and anger. ‘But my brother Philip did. I cannot endure the thought that, because of these happenings, he may find it harder to continue here.’
In the ministry we were led down the corridors to the office of Sir Philip’s secretary, who was a youngish man called Williams, smooth-faced, spectacled, dressed for his job in black coat and striped trousers, and full of self-importance in it. ‘I will go and find out when the Parliamentary Secretary will be free,’ he said, enjoying the chance to bring out his master’s appellation. He came back promptly and announced: ‘The Parliamentary Secretary will be glad to see you at once.’
We went through the inside door, and Sir Philip came across his room to meet us. He shook hands with Mr March, then said ‘How do you do?’ to me with his stiff, furrowed smile. As he sat down at his desk by the window which overlooked the park, I saw that his skin had taken on a yellowness, a matt texture, such as one sometimes sees in ageing men. He was seventy-three, only three years older than Mr March, but in the bright summer light the difference looked much greater.
‘I expect you’re dying of drought as usual at Haslingfield,’ Sir Philip began their ritual of brotherly baiting. ‘The country is under water everywhere else.’
‘I regard the rainfall as having been reasonable for once,’ said Mr March. ‘And I am pleased to report that I have sufficient water for my requirements.’
These exchanges went on for a few moments. They had made them for so many years, and Sir Philip at least could not let go of them now: Mr March’s replies were forced and mechanical. Sir Philip was, as the afternoon began, by far the less perturbed of the two. Soon he said: ‘I suppose we must get down to business. I should like to say, Eliot, that I am obliged to you for giving me your time. I should be glad to regard it as a professional service, of course, but my brother informs me that you are certain to prefer it otherwise. I appreciate your feelings and, as I say, I am obliged to you. I think you know some of the facts of this affair. In May there was some gossip about myself and some of my colleagues. We were alleged to have used our official knowledge during the past twelve months to buy holdings in companies where government contracts were soon going to be laid. This gossip also included some names outside the government, one of them being that fellow Getliffe. It has now been published, or at least a first instalment has. I believe you’ve seen it?’
I nodded.
‘I can answer for myself and my colleagues,’ Sir Philip went on. ‘So far as we are concerned, there’s not a word of truth in it. When I came back into the Government last year, I decided to spend the rest of my life being as useful to the country as I could, if they wanted me. It was a sacrifice, but I believe that some of us have got to accept responsibility. These aren’t easy years to hold responsibility: I needn’t tell you that.’
Even Sir Philip, I was thinking, could not avoid the expressions of convention, talked about ‘sacrifice’, perhaps used the word to himself – even Sir Philip, who was not a humbug but a hard and realistic man, who loved office and power and knew that he loved it.
‘I was prepared to make the sacrifice,’ Sir Philip went on. ‘I had to resign my directorships when I became a minister, naturally. I also decided to finish with all speculation. I’ve already told Leonard this.’ He glanced at Mr March.
‘I acknowledged your assurance,’ said Mr March, ‘on hearing it at your bedside during your period of incapacity owing to gout.’
‘I finished with it,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I am not a rich man, of course, but I can get along. I have not taken part in any single transaction since I entered the government last November. I cannot make such a categorical statement for my colleagues whose names have been bandied about, but I’m completely satisfied that they are clear.’
‘You mentioned people outside the government,’ I broke in. ‘I’m also satisfied in the same way about Getliffe.’
‘You mean he’s bought nothing in the last twelve months?’
‘Nothing that could be thought suspicious.’
‘What evidence are you going on?’
‘Nothing as definite as yours,’ I said. ‘But I’ve talked to him on this actual point, and I know him well.’
‘I reported Lewis Eliot’s observations on this matter,’ said Mr March.
Sir Philip’s eyes were bright and alert. ‘You’re convinced about this fellow Getliffe?’
‘Quite convinced,’ I said.
‘I accept that,’ said Sir Philip. ‘And it makes me certain that the whole campaign is a put-up job and there’s no backing to it at all.’
Mr March, who had been listening with painful attention, showed no relief as he heard these words. He looked at his brother, with an expression stupefied, harassed, distressed.
‘That being so,’ I said, ‘your solicitors are telling you to go ahead with a libel action, aren’t they?’
‘It’s not quite so easy,’ Sir Philip replied without hesitation, in a tone as authoritative as before. I admired his hard competence. Professionally, I thought, he would have been an ideal client. ‘They’ve tied up this affair with certain other transactions. The other transactions are supposed to have happened when I was in the government in 1929. You will notice that, in the case of Getliffe, they have taken care to tie these two allegations together. It is clever of them. I detest their politics, I’ve no use for their general attitude, and if I can put them in their place, I shall – but we mustn’t imagine that we are dealing with fools.’
‘I have never thought so,’ said Mr March.
‘If they go ahead with these allegations about last year, I should win a libel action, shouldn’t I?’ Sir Philip asked me.
‘Without the slightest doubt,’ I said.
‘I should also do myself more harm than good,’ he went on.
I was thinking how precisely Seymour had calculated the risk.
‘There happens to be some substance in what they say about 1929,’ said Sir Philip.
We waited for him to go on.
‘I may say at once that I’ve done nothing which men of decent judgement could think improper. But one step I took in good faith which these people may twist against me. I am very much to blame for giving them such a handle. I’ve always thought it was not only essential to be honest: it was also essential to seem honest. I take all the blame for not seeing further than my nose. That is the only blame I am disposed to take.’
He paused, and gave a sardonic chuckle.
‘I should like to distinguish my actions from Getliffe’s quite sharply. In 1929 Getliffe made a disgraceful use of information he had acquired professionally. In my judgement, there is no question of it. He knew the government were giving a contract to Howard & Hazlehurst. He used catspaws to buy a fair-sized block of shares. He must have done very well out of it. Howard & Hazlehurst were down to 9s. in 1929: they stand at 36s. today.’