George Passant
George Passant
First published in 1940
© Philip Snow; House of Stratus 1940-2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of C.P. Snow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 0755120108 EAN 9780755120109
Note for Readers
Reader preferences vary, as do eReaders.
This eBook is designed to be read by any eReading device or software that is capable of reading ePub files. Readers may decide to adjust the text within the capability of their eReader. However, style, paragraph indentation, line spacing etc. is optimised to produce a near equivalent reflowable version of the printed edition of the title when read with Adobe® Digital Editions. Other eReaders may vary from this standard and be subject to the nuances of design and implementation. Further, not all simulators on computers and tablets behave exactly as their equivalent eReader. Wherever possible it is recommended the following eReader settings, or their equivalent (if available), be used:
Clear Local Data – off; Local Styling – off; Text Alignment – Publisher Default.
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Charles Percy Snow was born in Leicester, on 15 October 1905. He was educated from age eleven at Alderman Newton’s School for boys where he excelled in most subjects, enjoying a reputation for an astounding memory and also developed a lifelong love of cricket. In 1923 he became an external student in science of London University, as the local college he attended in Leicester had no science department. At the same time he read widely and gained practical experience by working as a laboratory assistant at Newton’s to gain the necessary practical experience needed.
Having achieved a first class degree, followed by a Master of Science he won a studentship in 1928 which he used to research at the famous Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge. There, he went on to become a Fellow of Christ’s College, Cambridge, in 1930 where he also served as a tutor, but his position became increasingly titular as he branched into other areas of activity. In 1934, he began to publish scientific articles in
Nature
, and then
The Spectator
before becoming editor of the journal
Discovery
in 1937. However, he was also writing fiction during this period, with his first novel
Death Under Sail
published in 1932, and in 1940
’Strangers and Brothers’
was published. This was the first of eleven novels in the series and was later renamed
’George Passant’
when
’Strangers and Brothers’
was used to denote the series itself.
Discovery
became a casualty of the war, closing in 1940. However, by this time Snow was already involved with the Royal Society, who had organised a group to specifically use British scientific talent operating under the auspices of the Ministry of Labour. He served as the Ministry’s technical director from 1940 to 1944. After the war, he became a civil service commissioner responsible for recruiting scientists to work for the government. He also returned to writing, continuing the
Strangers and Brothers
series of novels.
’The Light and the Dark’
was published in 1947, followed by
’Time of Hope’
in 1949, and perhaps the most famous and popular of them all, ‘
The Masters’
, in 1951. He planned to finish the cycle within five years, but the final novel
’Last Things’
wasn’t published until 1970.
He married the novelist Pamela Hansford Johnson in 1950 and they had one son, Philip, in 1952. Snow was knighted in 1957 and became a life peer in 1964, taking the title Baron Snow of the City Leicester. He also joined Harold Wilson’s first government as Parliamentary Secretary to the new Minister of Technology. When the department ceased to exist in 1966 he became a vociferous back-bencher in the House of Lords.
After finishing the
Strangers and Brothers
series, Snow continued writing both fiction and non-fiction. His last work of fiction was ‘
A Coat of Vanish’,
published in 1978. His non-fiction included a short life of
Trollope
published in 1974 and another, published posthumously in 1981, ‘
The Physicists
:
a Generation that Changed the World’
. He was also inundated with lecturing requests and offers of honorary doctorates. In 1961, he became Rector of St. Andrews University and for ten years also wrote influential weekly reviews for the
Financial Times.
In these later years, Snow suffered from poor health although he continued to travel and lecture. He also remained active as a writer and critic until hospitalized on 1 July 1980. He died later that day of a perforated ulcer.
’Mr Snow has established himself, on his own chosen ground, in an eminent and conspicuous position among contemporary English novelists’ - New Statesman
The Triumph of George Passant
THE fire in our habitual public house spurted and fell. It was a comfortable fire of early autumn, and I basked beside it, not caring how long I waited. At last Jack came in, bustled by the other tables, sat down at mine, and said: ‘I’m in trouble, Lewis.’
For an instant I thought he was acting; as he went on, I believed him.
‘I’m finished as far as Calvert goes,’ he said. ‘And I can’t see my way out.’
‘What have you done?’
‘I’ve done nothing,’ said Jack. ‘But this morning I received a gift–’
‘Who from? Who from?’
‘From young Roy.’
I had heard Roy’s name often in the past two months. He was a boy of fifteen, the son of the Calvert whom Jack had just mentioned and who owned the local evening paper; Jack worked as a clerk in the newspaper office, and during the school holidays, which had not yet ended, the boy had contrived to get to know him. Jack, in his easy-natured fashion, had lent him books, been ready to talk; and had not discovered until the last few days that the boy was letting himself be carried in a dream, a romantic dream.
With a quick gesture Jack felt in his coat pocket and held a cigarette case in front of the fire. ‘Here we are,’ he said.
The firelight shone on the new, polished silver. I held out my hand, took the case, looked at the initials J C (Jack Cotery) in elaborate Gothic letters, felt the solid weight. Though Jack and I were each five years older than the boy who had given it, it had cost three times as much as we had ever earned in a week.
‘I wonder how he managed to buy it,’ I said.
‘His father is pretty lavish with him,’ said Jack. ‘But he must have thrown away every penny–’
He was holding the case again, watching the reflected beam of firelight with a worried smile. I looked at him: of all our friends, he was the one to whom these things happened. I had noticed often enough how women’s eyes followed him. He was ready to return their interest, it is true; yet sometimes he captured it, from women as from Roy, without taking a step himself. He was not handsome; he was not even specially good looking, in a man’s eyes; he was ruddy-faced, with smooth black hair, shortish and powerfully built. His face, his eyes, his whole expression, changed like quicksilver whenever he talked.
‘You haven’t seen it all,’ said Jack, and turned the case over. On this side there was enamelled a brilliant crest, in gold, red, blue and green; the only quarter I could make out contained a pattern of azure waves. ‘He put a chart inside the case to prove these were the arms of the Coterys,’ Jack went on, and showed me a piece of foolscap, covered with writing in a neat, firm, boyish hand. One paragraph explained that the azure waves ‘are a punning device, Côte for Cotery, used by a family of Dorset Coterys when given arms in 1607 by James I.’ I was surprised at the detail, the thoroughness, the genealogical references, the devotion to heraldry as well as to Jack; it must have taken weeks of research.
‘It’s quite possibly genuine,’ said Jack. ‘The family must have come down in the world, you know. There’s still my father’s brother, the Chiswick one–’
I laughed, and he let the fancy drop. He glanced at the chart, folded it, put it carefully away; then he rubbed mist from the case and studied the arms, his eyes harassed and half-smiling.
‘You’d better send it back tonight,’ I said.
‘It’s too late,’ said Jack. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said – that I’m finished as far as old Calvert goes?’
‘Does he know that Roy’s given you a present?’
‘He knows more than that. He happened to get hold of a letter that was coming with it.’
It was not till then that I realised Calvert had already spoken to Jack.
‘What did the letter say?’
‘I don’t know. He’s never written before. But you can guess, Lewis, you can guess. It horrified Calvert, clearly. And there doesn’t seem anything I can do.’
‘Did you manage to tell him,’ I said, ‘that it was an absolute surprise to you, that you knew nothing about it?’
‘Do you think that was easy?’ said Jack. ‘Actually, he didn’t give me much of a chance. He couldn’t keep still for nerves, as a matter of fact. He just said that he’d discovered his son writing me an – indiscreet letter. And he was forced to ask me not to reply and not to see the boy. I didn’t mind promising that. But he didn’t want to listen to anything I said about Roy. He dashed on to my future in the firm. He said that he’d always expected there would be a good vacancy for me on the production side. Now he realised that promotions had gone too fast, and he would be compelled to slow down. So that, though I could stay in my present boy’s job for ever, he would advise me in my own interests to be looking round for some other place.’
Jack’s face was downcast; we were both sunk in the cul-de-sac hopelessness of our age.