Free George Passant by C. P. Snow Page A

people for fifty years, for fifty-three years and a half, within a few days, and as a result of that experience I know that their lives change all of a sudden – like this–’ he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and moistened his pencil against a lip; then he drew a long straight line– ‘a man lives in sin and enjoyment and indulgence for years, until he is brought up against himself; and then, if he chooses right, life changes altogether – so .’ And he drew a line making a sharp re-entrant angle with the first, and coming back to the edge of the paper. ‘That’s what I mean by conversion, and I couldn’t tell you all the lives I’ve seen it in.’
    ‘I can’t claim the length of your experience,’ George’s tone had suddenly become hard, near anger, ‘but I have been studying people intensively for several years. And all I’ve seen makes me think their lives are more like this–’ he took his father’s paper under the gaslight, his hand casting a blue shadow; he drew a rapid zigzag. ‘A part of the time they don’t trouble to control their baser selves. Then for a while they do and get on with the most valuable task in sight. Then they relax again. And so on another spurt. For some people the down-strokes are longer than the up, and some the reverse. That’s all I’m prepared to admit. That’s all you need to hope, it seems to me. And whatever your hopes are, they’ve got to be founded in something like the truth–’
    Mr Passant was breathless and excited: ‘Mine is the truth for every life I’ve seen. It’s the truth for my own life, and no one else can speak for that. When I was a young man I did nothing but run after enjoyments and pleasures.’ He was staring at the paper on the table. It was quiet; a spurt of rain dashed against the window. ‘Sensual pleasures,’ said Mr Passant, ‘that neither of you will ever hear about, perhaps, much less be tempted with. But they were pleasures to me. Until I was a young man about your age, not quite your age exactly.’ He looked at George. ‘Then one night I had a sight of the way to go. I can never forget it, and I can never forget the difference between my state before and since. I can answer for the same change in others also. But chiefly I have to speak for myself.’
    ‘I have to do the same,’ said George.
    They stared at each other, their faces shadowed. George’s lips were pressed tightly together.
    Then Margaret, George’s youngest sister, a girl of fourteen, came in to lay the supper. And Mrs Passant, still unappeased, followed with a great metal tray.
    Supper was a meal both heavy and perfunctory. There was a leg of cold overdone beef, from which Mr Passant and George ate large slices: after the potatoes were finished, we continued with the meat alone. Mrs Passant herself was eating little – to draw George’s concern, I thought. When her husband tried to persuade her, she merely smiled abruptly. His voice was entreating and anxious; for a moment, the room was pierced by unhappiness, in which, as Mr Passant leaned forward, George and the child suddenly took their share.
    Nothing open was said until Margaret had gone to bed. From halfway up the stairs, she called out my Christian name. I went up, leaving the three of them alone; Margaret was explaining in her nervous, high-pitched voice that her candle had gone out and she had no matches. She kept me talking for a few moments, proud of her first timid attempt to flirt. As she cried ‘Goodnight’ down the stairs, I heard the clash of voices from below. The staircase led, through a doorway, directly into the kitchen; past the littered table, George’s face stood out in a frown of anger and pain. Mr Passant was speaking. I went back to my place; no one gave me a glance.
    ‘You’re putting the wrong meaning on to us,’ the words panted from Mr Passant. ‘Surely you see that isn’t our meaning, or not what we tried to mean.’
    ‘I can only understand it one way,’