‘No one wants you to,’ said George.
Martineau rested his hands on the sofa.
‘But I haven’t been able to see a way to keep on with those – and stay in the firm.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I oughtn’t to be part of a firm and doing it harm at the same time, surely you agree, George? And these other attempts of mine – that I can’t give up, they’re damaging it, of course.’
‘You mean to say the firm’s worse off because of your–’ George shouted, stopped and said, ‘activities?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What’s the evidence?’
‘One or two people have said things.’ Martineau stared at the ceiling.
‘Have they said, plainly and definitely, that they think the firm’s worse off than it was a couple of years ago?’
‘They haven’t said it in quite so many words, but–’
‘They’ve implied it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I forget their names, except–’
‘Except who?’
‘Harry Eden said something not long ago.’
‘Then Eden’s a fool and a liar and I shall have pleasure in telling him so to his face,’ George was shouting again. ‘He wants to get rid of you and is trying a method that oughtn’t to take in a child. It’s simply nonsense. This is a straightforward matter of fact. The amount of business we did in the last nine months is bigger than in any other twelve months since I came. And we did more last month than during any similar time. It’s only natural, of course. Anyone but Eden would realise that. And even he would if he hadn’t a purpose of his own to serve. We’re bound to have more cases, considering the success we had not long ago.’
‘What do you mean?’ Martineau, who had been frowning, inquired.
‘It’s only reasonable to imagine,’ George said in a subdued voice, ‘that the case in the summer had something to do with it.’
‘Oh yes,’ Martineau became passive again.
Morcom said: ‘Do you think George is wrong, Howard? Do you really think the firm is suffering?’
His voice sounded cold and clear after the others.
‘I think perhaps we’re talking of different things,’ said Martineau. ‘I’m sure George’s figures are right. I wasn’t thinking of it quite in that way. I mean, I believe, I’m doing – what shall I say? – a kind of impalpable harm – just as the work I’m trying to do outside the firm is impalpable work. Which doesn’t prevent it’ – he smiled – ‘being the most practical in the world, in my opinion.’
‘I want to know,’ George’s voice was raised, ‘what do you mean by impalpable harm to the firm?’
They argued again: Martineau became more evasive, and once he showed something like a flash of anger.
‘I’m trying to do the best thing,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you seem so eager to prevent me.’
‘That’s quite unfair.’
‘I hoped my friends at any rate would give me credit for what I’m trying.’ Then he recovered his light temper. ‘Ah well, George, when you do something you feel is right, you’ll know just what to expect.’
‘Have you definitely made up your mind’, said Morcom, ‘to sell your share in the firm?’
‘I can’t say that,’ said Martineau. ‘Just now. I will tell you soon.’
‘When?’
‘It can’t be long, it can’t possibly be long,’ Martineau replied.
‘Next Friday?’ I asked.
‘No, not then. I shan’t be in that night.’
Since any of us knew him, he had never missed being at home on Friday night. He announced it quite casually.
‘I’ll see you soon, though,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell George when we can arrange one of our chats. It’s so friendly of you to be worried. I value that, you don’t know how I value that.’
In the street there was a mist which encircled the lamps. For a moment we stood outside the park gate; I felt a shiver of chill, and an anxious tension became mixed with the night’s cold. Morcom said: ‘We’d better go and have a coffee. We ought to talk this out.’
We walked down the road towards the station, chatting perfunctorily, our footsteps ringing heavily in the dank air. We went – there was nowhere else in this part of the town at night – to the café where we held the first conference about Jack.
‘Can we do anything?’ Morcom asked, as soon as we sat down. ‘Have either of you any ideas?’
‘He must be stopped,’ said George.
‘That’s easy to say.’
‘If only he could be made to recognise the
facts
,’ George said.
‘That doesn’t help.’
‘Of course it would help. The man’s simply been misled. By the way,’ George added with an elaborately indifferent smile, ‘I thought you might have taken the opportunity to enlighten him. About the importance of the work I’ve done for them. Particularly the case.’
I saw a light, a narrowed concentration, in Morcom’s eyes; I was on edge. I expected him to be provoked by the insistence and say something like, ‘I could have explained, George, how important the case seems to you.’ Morcom hesitated, and said: ‘I would. But it wouldn’t have been useful to you – or to him.’
‘That’s absurd,’ George burst out. ‘If he could really see.’
‘It wouldn’t make the slightest difference.’
‘I refuse to accept that.’
‘Don’t you see,’ Morcom leaned forward, ‘that he’s
bound to leave
?’
I knew it too. Yet George sat without replying. He seemed blind: he was a man himself more passionate and uncontrolled than any of us, but now he was not able to see past his own barricade of reasons, he was not able to perceive the passions of another.
‘You must recognise that,’ Morcom was saying. ‘You don’t think all these arguments matter to him? Except to bolster up a choice he’s already been forced to make. That’s all. I expect it pleases him’ – he smiled – ‘to be told how much he’s giving up, and how unnecessary it is. It’s just a luxury. As for affecting him, one might as well sing choruses from
The Gondoliers
. He’s already made the decision in his mind.’ He smiled again. ‘As far as that goes,’ he added, ‘he may already have made it in fact.’
‘You mean he’s actually sold his share?’ George said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Morcom. ‘It’s possible.’
‘To some bastard,’ said George, ‘who happens to have enough money to make a nuisance of himself to other people. Who’ll disapprove of everything I do. Who’ll make life intolerable for me.’
I walked past Martineau’s, the following Friday night. The drawing room window was dark: Martineau, so George thought, was visiting his brother, the Canon. Next day, when I was having supper with Morcom, George sent a message by Jack: Martineau wanted to see us tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon: we were to meet at George’s.
‘Martineau’s getting more fun out of all this than anyone else,’ said Jack. ‘Like your girl’ – he said to Morcom – ‘when she decided to sacrifice herself. Blast them both.’ He could speak directly to Morcom about Olive, as no one else could; and he went out of his way to ease Morcom’s jealousy. ‘How is she, by the way? No one else ever hears a word but you.’
‘She seems fairly cheerful,’ said Morcom.
‘Blast her and Martineau as well. Send them off together,’ said Jack. ‘They deserve each other. That’d put them right if anything could.’ His face melted into a mischievous, kindly grin. I had heard him say the same, with even more mischief, about Sheila.
When I arrived at George’s the next day, he was smoking after the midday meal. His shout of greeting had a formal cheerfulness, but I could hear no heart behind it.
‘You’re the first,’ he said.
‘Martineau
is
coming?’
‘I imagine so,’ said George. ‘Even Martineau couldn’t get us all together and then not turn up himself.’
We sat by the window, looking out into the street. The knocker on the door opposite glistened in the sun.
Soon there were footsteps down the pavement. Martineau looked in and waved his hand. George went to let him in.
‘Come in,’ I heard George saying, and then, ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’
Martineau sat down in an armchair opposite the window; his face, lit by the clear light from the street, looked tranquil and happy. George pushed the table back against the wall, and placed two chairs in front of the fire.
‘Have you seen Morcom lately?’ he said to Martineau. ‘I sent him word.’
‘He may be just a little late,’ Martineau said. ‘He is having lunch with’ – he smiled at George – ‘my brother.’
‘Why’s that?’ George’s question shot out.
‘To talk over my little affair, I’m afraid,’ Martineau answered. ‘I’ve never made such a nuisance of myself before–’ his laugh was full of pleasure.
‘What does your brother think of it?’
‘Very much the same as you do, George. He rather took the line that I owe an obligation to my relatives.’ Martineau stared at the ceiling. ‘I tried to put it to him as a Christian minister. I pointed out that he ought to sympathise with our placing certain duties higher than our duties to relatives. But he didn’t seem to agree with my point of view.’
‘Nor would any man of any sense,’ said George.
‘But is sense the most important thing?’ Martineau asked ‘For myself–’
‘I refuse to be bullied by all these attacks on reason. I’m sorry, Mr Martineau,’ said George, ‘but I spend a great deal of my own time, as you know perfectly well, in activities that don’t give me any personal profit whatever; but I’m prepared to justify them by reason, and if I couldn’t I should give them up. That isn’t true of what you propose to do, and so if you’ve got any respect for your intellectual honesty you’ve got no option but to abandon it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see it like that.’ Martineau moved restlessly; his eyes met mine and then looked into the fire.
‘There is no other way of seeing it,’ said George.
(Many years later, near the end of George’s life, I had to recall that justification of his.)
Through the uproar of George’s voice I thought I had heard a knock at the door; it came again, now. I got up, and brought Morcom in. He spoke directly to Martineau.
‘Eden’s made a suggestion–’
‘Where have you been?’ George interrupted.
‘Having lunch with Eden and Howard’s brother.’
‘I’m afraid,’ Martineau broke in, ‘I’ve been rather guilty this afternoon. I was trying to break it gently, you see, George. You must forgive me!’
‘I’d better be told now.’
‘Well, I spent all the early part of last week thinking over everything that had been said,’ Martineau began. ‘It was very difficult with so many friends that I really respect – you must believe that I respect your opinion, George – with so many friends – disapproving so much. But in the end I felt that I had to let them disapprove. The way I’d come to did really seem to be the only way.’ He smiled. ‘It does still.’
George had flushed. Morcom was looking at Martineau.
‘So I told Harry Eden on Monday afternoon,’ Martineau went on. ‘He said he’d like to see my brother. That’s why I arranged for them to meet.’
‘You’d arranged that a week ago. So you’d made up your mind then,’ George burst out.
‘Not quite made up.’ For a moment Martineau looked a little distraught. ‘And in any case I felt I should like to have his advice, whether I had decided or not, you see. And Eden thought he’d feel easier if he could talk to one of my relatives, naturally.’
‘I was brought in,’ Morcom said, ‘because Martineau hasn’t any close friends of his own age in the town. You were ruled out because you were in the firm yourself, George. So Eden asked me in.’
To me, it was natural enough. Morcom at twenty-eight was a man who seemed made for responsibility; and most people thought of him as older.
‘I suppose it’s understandable,’ George said. ‘But if you’ve made up your mind’ – he looked at Martineau – ‘however fantastic it seems to everyone else, why should Eden become so officious all of a sudden? It’s simply a matter of selling your share. I should have thought even Eden could have done that without family conferences.’
There was a pause. Martineau said, his voice trailing off: ‘There is one matter that isn’t quite–’
‘It’s this,’ said Morcom. ‘Martineau doesn’t want to sell his share. He insists on giving it up to Eden.’
We sat in silence.
‘It’s raving lunacy,’ George cried out.
‘George! You won’t be the last to call it that kind of name.’ Martineau laughed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said George, heavily. ‘And yet – what else can you call it?’
‘I should like to call it something else.’ Martineau was still laughing. ‘I should like to call it: part of an attempt to live as I think I ought. It’s time, George, it’s time, after fifty years.’
‘
Why
do you think you ought?’
‘The religion I try to believe in–’
‘You know you’re doubtful whether you can call yourself a Christian.’
‘This world of affairs of yours, George,’ Martineau was following another thought – ‘why, my chief happiness in your socialism is that one ought to give up all one has to the common good. It’s always been a little of a puzzle how one can fail to do that in practice and keep the faith.’
George was flaring out, when I said: ‘“Give it up to the common good” – but you’re not doing that. You’re giving it to Eden.’
‘Ah, Lewis!’ Martineau smiled. ‘You think at least I ought to dispose of it myself?’
‘I should have thought so.’
‘Don’t you see,’ he said, ‘that I can’t do that? If I admit I have the power to dispose of it, why then I haven’t got rid of the chains. I’ve got to let it slide. I mustn’t allow myself the satisfaction of giving it to a friend’ – he looked at George – ‘or selling it and giving the money to charity. I’m compelled to forgo even that. I must just stand by as humbly as I can and be glad I haven’t got the power.’
I looked at Morcom and George. We were all quiet. It was in a flat, level voice that George said: ‘No doubt Eden hasn’t raised any objections.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Morcom. ‘He’s behaved very well.’
Martineau looked cheerfully at George. He still enjoyed a thrust at his partner’s expense.
‘He’s a good fellow,’ he said lightly.
‘I prefer to hold to my own opinion.’
‘He’s behaved well,’ said Morcom again. ‘Better than you could reasonably expect. He refused to do anything at all until he’d seen Martineau’s brother. He said today that he doesn’t like it and that he won’t sign any transfer for three months. If anything happens to make Martineau change his mind during that time, then Eden wants the firm to go on as before. And if it doesn’t, well, he said he was a businessman and not a philanthropist, and so he wasn’t going to make gestures. He’ll just take the offer. He’s very fond of Martineau, he’s as sorry as anyone else that this has happened–’