Last Things by C. P. Snow Read Free Book Online Page B

daughters: my maternal grandfather had been a gamekeeper on his grandfather’s estate. A number, though, had come up from the Commons, or their nineteenth-century ancestors had; some had been successes in politics, some had missed the high places, and some had never hoped for much. There were several life peers, as Francis was, and some women. Round the room one could hear a variety of accents: about as many as in the Athenaeum, which was a meritocratic club, and a good deal more than in the other club I sometimes used.
    Most of these people might have seemed strange to their predecessors in the Lords a hundred years before. No doubt the professional politicians (and there had been plenty of professional politicians there in the nineteenth century, even if, like Palliser, they were landed magnates too) would have found plenty to talk about to the modern front-benchers: there was no tighter trade union in England, then or now. But still, it was like our college, Francis’ and mine. The fabric of the building hadn’t altered: the survival of politeness in which Francis had been indulging in the Chamber, that hadn’t altered either, not by a word. The forms remained the same, while the contents changed. It had perhaps been a strength sometimes, this national passion for clinging on to forms, nostalgic, pious, warthog obstinate. Alternatively, it could have released our energies if we had cut them away. And yet, for this country that had never been on, there had never been a realistic chance. Bend the forms, make them stretch, use them for purposes quite different from those in which they had grown up: that had been the way we found it natural (the pressures were so mild we didn’t feel them, as mild as the soft English weather) to work. Sometimes I wondered whether my son and his contemporaries would find it natural too.
    I mentioned as much to Francis that night. I had recently heard from Charles, and so could think about him at ease. His was a generation that to Francis, whose children were older, seemed like strangers.
    The loudspeaker boomed out – ‘Defence debate. Speaking, the Lord–’ Within two minutes of this news, the population flowing into the guest room had markedly increased. Among the deserters was Lord Ampleforth, pushing his way towards the bar, heavy shoulders hunched. Glancing across to our corner, he nodded to Francis, a flashing-eyed, recognitory nod, as from one power to another. Francis called out: ‘Interesting speech, Josh.’
    We watched Josh acquire his whisky, and glance round the room.
    ‘Looking for someone useful,’ Francis quietly commented. Apparently, whatever Josh was in search of, he didn’t find it. He swallowed his drink at speed, gave another flashing-eyed nod to Francis, patted two men on their shoulders, and went out, presumably back to the Chamber, even though Lord – was still up.
    Francis, settling back in his chair by the window, did not feel obliged to follow. He was comfortable, ready to sit out the next few speeches, until out of courtesy he returned for the end of the debate. If it hadn’t been for his own choice, he wouldn’t have been as free as that; he would have been on the front bench, waiting to wind up for the government. For, the weekend after the election, he had had an offer. Would he become a minister of state? To take charge of the nuclear negotiations? He had told me before he replied, but he wasn’t asking for advice. He had said no.
    There was one objective reason. He knew, just as I knew, without the aid of Azik’s benevolent instruction, how little a minister could do. The limits of free action were cripplingly tight, tighter than seemed real to anyone who had not been inside this game. We had both watched, been associated with, and gone down alongside a Tory minister, Roger Quaife, who had tried to do what Francis would have had to try. And Quaife had been far more powerful than Francis could conceivably be. The limits of freedom for this