Herbert Getliffe did just the opposite. He was fond of rejoicing with him who rejoices. He behaved as though he had won the case, instead of me, and immediately set about improvising a celebratory supper (‘each man to pay for himself and partner. I always believe in Dutch treat,’ he told me, with energy and sincerity). Over the telephone, at four hours’ notice, he invited guests, most of whom were only acquaintances of mine. Charles could not come, and Getliffe whistled and clucked his tongue in disapprobation. ‘He ought to have put everything else off, on a night like this! But you’ll find, Eliot, that some people take one view of the responsibilities of friendship, and some take another.’ He added, in his most reflective, earnest, and affectionate tone: ‘Of course some chaps in the position of young March would have done something for you in the way of introductions — instead of letting you sink or swim. I don’t believe in flattering myself, Eliot, but I must say it was a providential thing that you came to my chambers, so that you had one well-wisher at any rate to look after you a bit—’
With genuine feeling he developed the theme. He was so sincere, so full of emotion, that he found it impossible to remember that he had done nothing for me whatsoever; listening, I found it nearly as impossible myself.
At the meal, I began by being jubilant and boastful, trying to impress my neighbour, a cool and handsome girl. Getting nowhere, I went on boasting, still exalted: yet I felt this party was becoming a joke against me, and as we stood about when we had finished eating I was smiling to myself.
It was then that I caught sight of a young woman watching me: she too was smiling, but with what looked like sympathy. All I knew about her was that her name was Ann Simon, and I had met her for the first time that night. I went across to her.
‘You ought to be pleased, oughtn’t you?’ she said. Her tone was kind, a little shy, almost deferential. As I looked at her, I was struck by a contrast. Her face was open and intelligent, with bright-blue eyes folded at the inner corners; under her left eye was a mole. Against her thick dark hair, her temples seemed delicate and white. One could call her pretty, certainly good-looking, but at the first glance one was thinking of the character in her face. That was where the contrast came, for her figure was elegant, soft and supple, more carefully and expensively dressed, so I thought, than any woman in the room. Her manner was at the same time direct and shy, warm but not at all flirtatious. I found myself talking to her as an ally.
Yes, I ought to be pleased, I said, it had been an important day for me. But this celebration wasn’t exactly what I might have imagined. The young woman I was fond of was not there, nor were any of my friends. On the other hand, Getliffe and some of his chums were having a remarkably good time.
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘you couldn’t have arranged anything in advance, could you? I mean, you couldn’t have got your friends to stand by?’
‘I was touching wood too hard,’ I replied.
She nodded her head in comprehension. It would have been easy to tell her about my love-affair. She asked about my friends: I mentioned Charles March, and asked if she knew the family. Yes, she did, and she had met him once. It was agreeable standing there talking to her, and I thought she felt so too. We were the same age; she was kind and clever and we were not making any demands on each other. Meeting her seemed a good end to that day.
I told Charles about her. He was not sure who she was, but he was interested in her effect on me. Just then we had sharper eyes for each other than for ourselves. He saw that I had fallen deeply in love too early, and that Sheila had already left a mark on my life: he saw also that, too much committed to Sheila as I was, I often felt disproportionate gratitude to women who gave me what she could not. Such as ordinary simple friendliness, which was what I had received from Ann Simon.
With him, I saw just as clearly that he wanted to find someone to love: or rather he wanted to lose himself in someone. It was the opposite of my experience. Why he had missed it, I could not imagine: but now that he was consciously looking for it, I thought his chances were getting less.
That summer he went on living his idle life. He spent days at Lord’s and Wimbledon; took a season-ticket for the ballet; flirted with a young woman he met at a coming-out dance; arrived a good many times at Bryanston Square when the door was already unlocked for the morning.
The mantelpiece in his sitting-room was shining with invitations. Less than half came from Jewish houses. He was a highly eligible match, and hostesses were anxious to secure him. That year, he was eager to accept. His car drove with the others to Grosvenor Square, Knightsbridge, the houses round the Park. It was a hot brilliant summer, and sometimes I used to walk past those houses, whose lights shone out while the sky was still bright. Dance-tunes sounded through the open windows, and girls’ voices as they walked under the awning from the street.
Charles found someone to flirt with; but he did not find what he was looking for. Just before he went down to Mr March’s country house for the summer, he was sharper-tempered than I had known him.
9: Weekend in the Country
One afternoon in July, as I sat in the drawing-room at Bryanston Square, Mr March entered even more quickly than usual, said: ‘I’m always glad to have your company. But I’ve a great many worries to occupy me now,’ and went out again.
It sounded ominous: but I discovered that he was talking about the yearly move to Haslingfield, his country house in Hampshire. I also discovered that each year this move produced the same state of subdued commotion. Mr March sat in his study for hours every day for a fortnight ‘seeing if it’s possible to get anything safely down to that confounded house’, but what he did no one knew. The elder servants became infected with the atmosphere of imminent catastrophe — all except the butler who, finding me alone on one of these occasions, suddenly said: ‘I shouldn’t take much notice of Mr March, sir. He’d die if he didn’t worry. Believe me he would.’
I was asked down to Haslingfield for the last weekend in August. That year, for the first time, Katherine was acting as hostess, ‘not entirely a job to look for,’ she wrote. ‘Mr L may have intended it as a compliment, or as a sign that I’m getting on in years — but he still regards it as unlikely that any guests will receive or answer my invitations, or, if by any miracle they do come, that they’ll ever go away. However, I’ve invited Ann Simon for the same weekend as you. Mr L resisted having her, apparently on the grounds that she was a bit of a social come-down: actually her father’s a highly successful doctor. Still, it’s better to have Mr L angry about her than about other topics. Anyway, she’s coming. I thought you talked as though you were interested in her, when you met her after your first case…’
Incidentally, that first case was now not my only one. Another small job had come my way in July, and at the end of the month the solicitor whom I met at the Holfords’ sent me a case which any young man at my stage would have thought himself lucky to get. It was to be heard in the autumn, and through August I had been working at it obsessively hard.
Katherine had asked me to come down early, and so I took the train on the Friday afternoon, tired but encouraged. This case would get me known a bit; I had a foot in; the next year looked brighter. The Surrey fields passed by in the sunshine, the carriage cushions smelt stuffy in the heat, and I felt happy, sleepy, and without any premonition at all.
Charles met me with his car at Farnham. He was sunburned, and his hair slightly bleached. For a second, I thought his face had aged in the last two years. Before I could ask him anything, he was talking — with the special insistence, I thought, of someone who wants to keep questions away.