‘I agree,’ said Rose.
I began, keeping my voice down, still seeming reasonable, to open the argument again, but in a moment Osbaldiston broke in: ‘It’s no use going over old ground.’
‘I really don’t think it’s very profitable,’ said Rose.
Then I lost my temper. I said they were too fond of the second-rate. I said that any society which deliberately made safe appointments was on the way out.
‘I’m sorry that we can’t carry you with us, Lewis.’ Rose’s eyes were cold, but he was keeping his own temper.
‘You do not realize your own prejudices,’ I cried.
‘No, this isn’t at all profitable and we must agree to differ.’ Rose spoke with exaggerated calm. ‘You’ve had more experience in selecting men than any of your colleagues. As you know, I for one have often been guided by you. But you’d be the first to admit that no man can be infallible. And even very wise people sometimes seem no more infallible than the rest of us, the nearer they get towards home.’
He had permitted himself that last arctic flick. Then, leaning back in his chair, his face smooth, he said: ‘Well, I think that is all for this morning. Thank you all very, very much for sparing your valuable time. Thank you, John. Thank you, Douglas. Thank you very much, Lewis.’
Back in my room, I stared out into the sun-bright Whitehall with the gauze of anger, of something like anxiety, of despondent restless bitterness in front of my eyes. It was the state that I used to know more often, that I had lived in during my worst times. It was a long while since I had been so wretched.
It had come pretty easy, it had not given me much regret, to slip out of the struggles of power — as a rule I did not mind seeing the places of power filled by the Osbaldistons, those who wanted them more. But that morning, gazing blankly down at the sunny street, I was wretched because I was not occupying them myself. Then and only then could I have done something for George and those like him.
The men I sat with in their offices, with their moral certainties, their comfortable, conforming indignation which never made them put a foot out of step — they were the men who managed the world, they were the people who in any society came out on top. They had virtues denied the rest of us: I had to give them my respect. But that morning I was on the other side.
45: Frigid Drawing-room
IN Whitehall the fog was dense: it was a little whiter, I could make out the lights in the shop-fronts, as the taxi nosed up Baker Street. By the time we reached Regent’s Park, the pavements were clear to the view as far as the glowing ground-floor windows. Trying to damp down expectation, I was soothed by the fog shutting me in: instead of the joggle of the taxi, the reminder of adult expectations to which one did not know the end, I felt the sheer cosiness of a childhood’s winter afternoon.
Whatever my expectations had been, I was surprised when I entered Davidson’s study. For Margaret smiled at me, without much trace of trouble: Davidson did not look up: they were playing a game. In the fireplace stood a teapot, cups, a plate of crumpets, but on Davidson’s side the tea had a skin on it. The crumpet’s butter was solid. He was leaning, his face still distinguished even though his mouth was open with concentration, over the board. So far as I could pick up at a glance, the board was home made, something like a chess board but not symmetrical and with at least three times the number of squares on the base line: at some points there appeared to be blanks and hazards. They were using ordinary chessmen, but each had some extra pieces, together with small boxes whose function I did not begin to understand.
As I looked at Margaret’s face, it seemed to me that I remembered returning to the house in Chelsea, finding Sheila staring with psychotic raptness at her chessmen: it was not a jab of pain, it was more like the pleasure (the exact converse of the Dantesque misery) with which, in the company of someone whom one safely loves, one looks in at a place where one has been miserable.
‘She said that you might be coming,’ said Davidson without preamble, gazing up under his eyebrows and then back at the board.
I said, ‘Just for a few minutes’, but Davidson ignored me.
‘You’ll have to play, of course,’ he said sternly. ‘It’s a much better game with three.’
It was, in fact, a war game which Davidson had perversely invented while he and his friends were pacifists in 1914–18. So far as I could judge, who envisaged the game stretching on, the three of us kept speechless there, it was elaborate but neat, crisp because he had a gift for concepts: Davidson wanted to explain it to me in all its beauties, irritated because I did not seem to be attending. I did not even pay enough attention, Davidson indicated, to the names of the two sides. They were Has-beens and Humbugs. The Has-beens were the side Davidson was commanding: their officers were chosen from his allies, associates and teachers, for Davidson, with his usual bleak honesty, knew critical fashion when he saw it. The other side was picked from Davidson’s irremovable aversions, among them D H Lawrence, Jung, Kierkegaard; various Catholic intellectuals and Communist art critics had places as brigadiers.
I did not know enough about the game to lose on purpose. All I knew was that Davidson would never get bored with it.
I could not even guess whether Margaret was willing to break the peace-of-the-moment.
Just then she was threatening one of her father’s rooks, who stood for an academic philosopher known to all three of us.
‘He oughtn’t to be on your side anyway,’ said Margaret.
Davidson studied the battle-plan.
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ he said without attention.
‘He’s going to be the next convert, or so the Warden says.’
‘The Warden,’ Davidson remarked, still preoccupied with his move, ‘is a good second-class liar.’
At last he guarded the rook, and was able to gather together the conversation — ‘he [the philosopher] is about as likely to be converted as I am. He’s a perfectly sensible man.’
‘And you couldn’t say fairer than that, could you?’ Davidson smiled: he liked being teased by his daughter: it was easy to feel how he had liked being teased, perhaps still did, by other women.
‘He was always perfectly sensible,’ he said.
‘However did you know?’
‘I don’t remember him ever saying anything really crass,’ said Davidson.
‘But you all said the same things,’ said Margaret. ‘I always wondered how you could tell each other apart.’
It was the first time I had seen her alone with her father. I had heard her talk of him very often, but never to him: and now I listened to her sounding gay and very much his daughter. Although I should have known better, I was surprised.
It was true that she felt something stronger than dislike for the beliefs of her father and his friends, and still more for their unbeliefs. She had been passionately convinced ever since she was a child that their view of life left out all that made men either horrible or splendid.
And yet, seeing her with her father, upset because I wanted nothing but to speak to her alone, I had to notice one thing — that she was proud of him. Her language was more like his than mine; in some ways her nerves were too.
I noticed something else, as I tried to calculate when the game might end — that she was disappointed for him. By the standards of his friends, he, who in his youth had been one of the most glittering of them, had not quite come off. He was no sort of creative person, he was not the critic that some of them had been. He had no illusion about it: at times, so Margaret divined, he had suffered because of it, and so did she. She could not help feeling that, if she had been a man, she would have been stronger than he. That protest, born of their relation or edged by it, had been too deep for me to see, in our first time together. I imagined her as other people did: all they imagined was true, she was loving, she was happy to look after those she loved — it was all true: but it was also true (and the origin of much that she struggled with) that her spirit was as strong as her father’s or mine, and in the last resort did not give an inch to either of us.