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Authors: C. P. Snow
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your requirements. Also that you made an exhibition of yourself over that same trust. That was the time your husband wrote a letter so precipitately–’ He turned to his sister-in-law and began to tell the story which I heard on my first visit to Bryanston Square.
‘It’s fantastic to imagine Winston doing anything of the kind,’ Philip interrupted him. ‘After what he said to the unfortunate George. I wouldn’t believe it if George weren’t much too incompetent to invent the story.’
The table quietened down. Philip gave the actual words. It was the first time I had heard behind-the-scenes gossip at that level: Philip endowed it with a special authority.
The elder Marches listened with satisfaction as Philip settled the question of supertax. Most of them were not only academically interested; there was a great deal of wealth in the room. Exactly how much, I should have liked very much to know, but about their fortunes they were more reticent than about anything else. None of the younger generation, at our end of the table, could do more than guess. Apparently no individual March had ever been enormously rich. There had probably never been a million pounds at any one man’s disposal. So far as one could judge from wills, settlements, and their style of life, most of the fortunes at this dinner-table would be between £100,000 and £500,000.
Philip was talking about the next election: ‘We’ve left it too late. We’re a set of bunglers. Our fellows had better stick it out until they’re bound to go.’
‘What’s going to happen?’ said Caroline.
‘We shall get the sack,’ said Philip.
‘Does that mean a Socialist Government?’ asked Florence Simon of Charles.
‘What else do you think it can mean?’ Mr March exclaimed down the table. ‘Now that your Aunt Winifred’s wretched party has come to the end that they’ve always richly deserved.’
He was chuckling at Winifred, Herbert March’s wife, who was the only Liberal of the older generation. The Marches had been Conservatives for a hundred years; when they stood for Parliament, it was as supporters of Salisbury, Balfour, Bonar Law; their political attitudes were those of other rich men.
At our end of the table, opinion moved a good way to the left. Herbert March’s daughter Margaret, who had not long since graduated at Oxford, was working as secretary to a Labour member. She was the most practical of them, the only professional: Charles took her side in argument, was more radical than she was, and Katherine followed suit. Most of the others had undertaken to vote against Sir Philip’s party. Of course, many other Marches had passed through a liberal phase in their youth – but to them that night, to me watching them, this seemed something harder, more likely to last.
We had finished the pheasant. Philip and Mr March put politics aside, and began talking about one of their nieces by marriage, who was reported to be living apart from her husband. She had always possessed a reputation for good looks: ‘the best-looking girl in the family, Herbert said, though I never knew why he was specially competent to judge,’ said Mr March. She had stayed unmarried until she was over thirty.
She was said to have had a good many offers, ‘but no one ever established where they came from,’ said Mr March. ‘The only reason I believed in them was that Hannah didn’t.’ And then, to everyone’s surprise, she had married someone quite poor, unattractive and undistinguished. ‘She married him,’ Philip announced, ‘because he was the only man who didn’t look when she was getting over a stile.’ His grin was caustic; but his dignity had broken for a moment, and there was a randy glitter in his eyes.
They were arguing about what had gone wrong with the marriage, when their sister Caroline, who was deaf, suddenly caught a word and said: ‘Were you talking about Charles?’ Mr March shook his head, but she went on: ‘I hope he realizes he’s
‘It’s fantastic to imagine Winston doing anything of the kind,’ Philip interrupted him. ‘After what he said to the unfortunate George. I wouldn’t believe it if George weren’t much too incompetent to invent the story.’
The table quietened down. Philip gave the actual words. It was the first time I had heard behind-the-scenes gossip at that level: Philip endowed it with a special authority.
The elder Marches listened with satisfaction as Philip settled the question of supertax. Most of them were not only academically interested; there was a great deal of wealth in the room. Exactly how much, I should have liked very much to know, but about their fortunes they were more reticent than about anything else. None of the younger generation, at our end of the table, could do more than guess. Apparently no individual March had ever been enormously rich. There had probably never been a million pounds at any one man’s disposal. So far as one could judge from wills, settlements, and their style of life, most of the fortunes at this dinner-table would be between £100,000 and £500,000.
Philip was talking about the next election: ‘We’ve left it too late. We’re a set of bunglers. Our fellows had better stick it out until they’re bound to go.’
‘What’s going to happen?’ said Caroline.
‘We shall get the sack,’ said Philip.
‘Does that mean a Socialist Government?’ asked Florence Simon of Charles.
‘What else do you think it can mean?’ Mr March exclaimed down the table. ‘Now that your Aunt Winifred’s wretched party has come to the end that they’ve always richly deserved.’
He was chuckling at Winifred, Herbert March’s wife, who was the only Liberal of the older generation. The Marches had been Conservatives for a hundred years; when they stood for Parliament, it was as supporters of Salisbury, Balfour, Bonar Law; their political attitudes were those of other rich men.
At our end of the table, opinion moved a good way to the left. Herbert March’s daughter Margaret, who had not long since graduated at Oxford, was working as secretary to a Labour member. She was the most practical of them, the only professional: Charles took her side in argument, was more radical than she was, and Katherine followed suit. Most of the others had undertaken to vote against Sir Philip’s party. Of course, many other Marches had passed through a liberal phase in their youth – but to them that night, to me watching them, this seemed something harder, more likely to last.
We had finished the pheasant. Philip and Mr March put politics aside, and began talking about one of their nieces by marriage, who was reported to be living apart from her husband. She had always possessed a reputation for good looks: ‘the best-looking girl in the family, Herbert said, though I never knew why he was specially competent to judge,’ said Mr March. She had stayed unmarried until she was over thirty.
She was said to have had a good many offers, ‘but no one ever established where they came from,’ said Mr March. ‘The only reason I believed in them was that Hannah didn’t.’ And then, to everyone’s surprise, she had married someone quite poor, unattractive and undistinguished. ‘She married him,’ Philip announced, ‘because he was the only man who didn’t look when she was getting over a stile.’ His grin was caustic; but his dignity had broken for a moment, and there was a randy glitter in his eyes.
They were arguing about what had gone wrong with the marriage, when their sister Caroline, who was deaf, suddenly caught a word and said: ‘Were you talking about Charles?’ Mr March shook his head, but she went on: ‘I hope he realizes he’s
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