by C. P. Snow
“It’s most interesting,” said Winslow, “to hear such a favourable opinion.”
“Not just my opinion,” said Colonel Foulkes. “Everyone agrees who’s competent to give one. Listen to Lyall.”
Sir Oulstone Lyall inclined his high, bald, domed head towards Winslow. He wore an impersonal, official, ambassadorial smile. He was used to being the spokesman for Central Asian history. He did it with a lofty gratification and self-esteem. It was noticeable that Foulkes deferred to him with admiration and respect.
“I must begin by covering myself under a warning, Mr President,” said Sir Oulstone in measured tones. “We all try to keep our sense of perspective, but it’s straining humanity not to exaggerate the importance of the subject to which one has devoted one’s small abilities for most of one’s life.”
Heads were nodded. The table was used to this kind of public approach. They could stand more pomp than most bodies of men.
“I must make that qualification,” said Sir Oulstone without any sign of hurry. “I may have a certain partiality for the studies with which I have associated for longer than I sometimes care to think. But, if you will kindly allow for that partiality, I may be able to assist you about Mr Calvert.” He paused. “I think I can say, with a full sense of responsibility, that among the younger workers Mr Calvert is the chief hope that our studies now possess.”
It never occurred to Sir Oulstone that the college might dispute his judgment. For a time, his confidence had a hypnotic effect on all there, and on Brown’s face there grew a comfortable, appreciative smile. Even Winslow did not produce a caustic remark, and it was left for Francis Getliffe to cross-examine Sir Oulstone about his detailed knowledge of Roy’s work. Francis, who was a precise and accurate man, knew that all Roy’s published work was linguistic – and he was right in thinking that Sir Oulstone was a historian, not a linguist at all. But Sir Oulstone was quite unperturbed by the questions: he turned to Foulkes, with the manner of one whistling up a technical assistant, and said with unshaken confidence: “Foulkes, I should like you to deal with that interesting point.” And Foulkes was off the mark at once.
Colonel Foulkes was off the mark even more rapidly when someone made a remark about Roy’s character.
“Splendid fellow. Everything you could wish for,” said Foulkes.
“I have heard reports,” said Winslow, “that the young man finds time for some night life. In the intervals of making his contribution to your subject, Sir Oulstone,” he added caustically, but I fancied that he was reluctant to bring in scandal. He had not done it before, and it was not his line.
“Nonsense,” said Colonel Foulkes instantaneously. “Fine clean-living fellow. He’s got his books and games, he doesn’t want anything else.”
Someone said a word, and Foulkes became incensed. “Listening to women’s gossip.” He glared round with hot, brown eyes. “Utterly unthinkable to anyone who knows Calvert as well as I do.”
Sir Oulstone intervened.
“I cannot pretend to have very intimate knowledge of Mr Calvert personally,” he said. “Though I may say that I’ve formed a very favourable impression. He does not thrust himself forward in the presence of his elders. But my friend Colonel Foulkes has been in constant touch with him–”
“The army teaches you to see the seamy side,” said Foulkes, still irate but simmering down. “Perhaps living in sheltered places makes you see things that aren’t there. Afraid I can’t leave this thing in its present state. I must correct this impression. Absolute nonsense. You couldn’t have a finer specimen of a young man.”
Immediately after we rose from hall, Foulkes went away without going into the combination room. He would not let a minute pass before he “corrected the impression”, and he had gone off, hot-temperedly, loyally, without thinking twice, to see the Master. Sir Oulstone blandly continued his praise of Roy for an hour in the combination room: for all his blandness, for all his impenetrable pomposity, he had a real desire to see his subject grow. As we broke up, I could not decide what had been the effect of this curious evening.
Later that night, I called on Roy. He was alone, the opalescent viewing screen was still lighted at the top of his tall desk, but he was sunk into an armchair. At the little table by his side, books had been pushed out of order, so as to make room for a bottle of brandy and a glass.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Not tired enough.”
He did not smile, he scarcely looked at me, his face was drawn and fixed with sadness.
“Have a drink, Lewis.”
“No.”
“You don’t mind me?” he said with a sad ironic courtesy, poured himself another glass, and took a gulp.
“There’s nothing special the matter, is there?” I asked, but I knew that it was not so.
“How could there be?”
He seemed to struggle from a depth far away, as he asked: “What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been in hall.”
“A good place, hall.”
“We were talking of you.”
“You should have something better to do,” he cried, half-angrily, half-wretchedly.
“It must happen just now, you know.” I tried to soothe him.
“They should forget me.”
“I told you, Oulstone Lyall was coming down–”
“He’s a dreadful man.”
“He’s pretty pompous,” I said. “But he was doing you very proud–”
“He should be told to stop,” said Roy with a grimace, sombre and frowning. “He’s a dreadful man. He’s stuffed. He’s never doubted himself for a minute in his life.”
In any mood, Roy was provoked by the Lyalls, by the self-satisfied, protected, and content; they were the men he could not meet as brothers. But now he was inflamed.
“He never even doubted himself when he pinched Erzberger’s work,” cried Roy.
Roy drank another brandy, and wildly told me of the scandal of thirty years before.
“It’s true,” said Roy angrily. “You don’t believe it, but it’s true.”
“Tell me the whole story some time.”
“You don’t need to humour me. That dreadful man oughtn’t to be talking nonsense about me. I need to stop him.”
I had never seen Roy so overwhelmed by despondency as this. I did not know what to expect, or what to fear next. I was appalled that night by the wild active gleam that kept striking out of the darkness. He did not submit to the despair, but struggled for anything that gave release.
All I could do, I thought, was try to prevent any action that might damage himself. I said that stretches of unhappiness had to be lived through; somehow one emerged from them; they were bad enough in themselves, it was worse if they left consequences when one was calm once again.
Roy listened, his eyes bright, bloodshot. He replied more gently than he had spoken that night.
“Dear old boy, you know what it is to be miserable, don’t you? But you think it ought to be kept in separate compartments, don’t you? You don’t believe that it ought to interfere with really serious things. Such as getting fellowships.”
“It’s better if it doesn’t,” I said.
“I wish I were as stoical as you,” he said. “Yet you’ve been hopeless, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just so. I’ll try, old boy, I’ll try. I can’t promise much.”
He was quiet for a time, and did not take another drink until Ralph Udal came in. Since I first met him, he had borrowed a considerable sum of money from Roy. He had followed Roy’s advice, and had taken a London curacy. He kept coming up to see Roy, so as to plan support within the college; but I knew he was also watching for Roy to be converted. His watch was patient, effortless, almost sinister. However, he was not so patient about obtaining his country living. Despite Roy’s instructions, he had been trying to hurry things that weekend. He had been calling on the Master, Despard-Smith, the Senior Tutor, Brown, in order to sound them about the next
vacancy; he was being much more open than Roy thought wise.
“Wonderful!” shouted Roy as Udal entered. “Old Lewis won’t drink, but you will, won’t you?”
Udal took a sip of brandy, and looked at Roy with passive good-nature.
“Haven’t you had enough?” he said.
“Probably,” said Roy, drinking again. “Well, what did they say to you?”
Udal shrugged his shoulders. He seemed irritated and chagrined.
“They don’t seem anxious to let me retire.”
“The devils,” said Roy.
“They think I’m too young to settle down in comfort. I’ve always had a faint objection,” said Udal, “to people who find it necessary to make one do unpleasant things for the good of one’s soul. Why do they take it on themselves to make life into a moral gymnasium?”
“Why do they, Lewis? You should know,” cried Roy.
I shook my head, and caught his eye. The gleam had come again; but, as he saw my look, anxious and disturbed, he still seemed enough in command to quieten himself.
“At any rate,” he added in a level tone, “you’re spared having a man like old Lyall talking nonsense about you.”
“Who is Lyall?” said Udal.
“You wouldn’t like him. He’s stuffed.” Again Roy told the scandal of Lyall and Erzberger’s work, but this time in a sad, contemptuous voice.
“Yours must be a curious trade,” said Udal.
“It doesn’t signify,” said Roy. “All men are the same, aren’t they?”
He went on drinking, though neither of us kept him company. It was getting late, and soon after midnight Udal and I both wanted to go. Roy begged us to stay a little longer. At last we got up, although he implored us not to leave him.
“You two may sleep, but I shan’t. So why should you go?” There was a trace of a smile. “Please don’t go. What’s the use of going to bed if you can’t sleep? And if you do sleep, you only dream. Dreams are horrible.”
“You’ll sleep now, if you go to bed,” I said.
“You don’t know,” said Roy. “I shan’t sleep tonight. I’ll do anything you like. Let’s do anything. Let’s play cards. Three-handed bezique. Please stay and play bezique with me. Good game, three-handed bezique. It’s a wonderful game. Please stay and play. Please stay with me.”
7: Walk in the Moonlight
Day after day, Roy was left with the darkness on his mind. He read his manuscripts until he was faint, but no relief came to him. He had never been through melancholy that was as dark, that lasted so long. He could not sleep, and his nights were worse than his days.
It was heart-rending to watch, now I saw his affliction clear for the first time. At least once I was cowardly enough to make an excuse not to see him at night. It was agony, not to be able to lift his despair, not even for an hour. It was agony to know his loneliness – and so to know my own.
And I was frightened. I was lost. I had never before felt my way among this kind of darkness. I could read of experiences which here and there resembled it, but books are empty when one is helpless beside such suffering. Nothing I found to read, nothing I had learned myself, could tell me what was likely to come next. Often I was frightened over quite practical things: would he collapse? would he break out in some single irreparable act? I was never afraid that he might kill himself: from a distance, it might have seemed a danger, but in his presence I did not give it a thought. But I imagined most other kinds of disaster.
The melancholy, which fell on him the weekend that Lyall and Foulkes arrived, did not stay uniform like one pitch-black and unchanging night. Occasionally, it was broken by a wild, lurid elation that seemed like a fantastic caricature of his natural gaiety. The mischievous high spirits with which he took me round the bookshops or baited the surgeon at the feast – those spirits seemed suddenly distorted into a frenzy. I feared such moments most: they happened very seldom. I was waiting for them, but I did not know whether sympathy or love could help him then. Sometimes the melancholy lifted for a time much more gradually, for a day or a night, and he became himself at once, though sadder, more tired and more gentle. “I must be an awful bore, old boy,” he said. “You’d better spend your time with Arthur Brown. You’ll find it less exhausting.”
All through, in melancholy or false elation, his intelligence was as lucid as ever: in fact, I sometimes thought that he was more lucid and penetrating than I had ever known him. He was given none of the comfort of illusion. He worked with the same precision and resource; some of his best emendations came during a phase of melancholy. And once or twice, struggling away from his own thoughts, he talked to me about myself as no one else could have done.
Whenever he could lose himself in another, I thought one night, he gained a little ease. It was a night not long after Lyall’s visit, and Roy and I were dining in the Lodge. The Master was in Oxford, and Lady Muriel had asked us to dine en famille with herself and Joan. After I had dressed, I went up to Roy’s room, and found him in shirtsleeves and black waistcoat studying his image in the mirror.
“If I keep out of the light, I may just pass.” He smiled at me ruefully. “I don’t look very bright for Lady Mu.”
Nights of insomnia had left stains under his eyes and taken the colour from his cheeks. There were shadows under his cheekbones, and his face, except when he smiled, was tired and drawn.
“I’ll have to do my best for her,” he said. He gazed again at his reflection. “It’s bad to look like death. It makes them worry, doesn’t it?” He turned away. “I’m also going bald, but that’s quite another thing.”
For once, Lady Muriel had not asked Mrs Seymour as the inevitable partner for me. There were only the four of us, and I was invited just as an excuse for having Roy: for Lady Muriel intended to enjoy his presence without being distracted at all.
She sat straightbacked at the end of the table, but if one had only heard her voice one would have known that Roy was there.
“Why have I been neglected, Roy?” she said.
“That is extremely simple,” said Roy.
“What do you mean, you impertinent young man?” she cried in delight.
“I’ve not been asked, Lady Mu,” he said, using her nickname to her face, which no one else would have dared.
He was using the tone, feline, affectionate, gently rough, which pleased her most. He was trying to hide his wretchedness, he acted a light-hearted mood in order to draw out her crowing laugh.
He smiled as he watched her face, suddenly undignified and unformidable, wrinkled, hearty, joyous as she laughed.
She recovered herself for a moment, however, when she talked of the Christmas vacation. Lord Boscastle had taken a villa outside Monte Carlo, and the Royces were going down “as soon as the Master (as Lady Muriel always called him) has finished the scholarship examination”.
I mentioned that I was arranging to spend a fortnight in Monte Carlo myself.
“How very strange, Mr Eliot,” said Lady Muriel, with recognition rather than enthusiasm. “How very strange indeed.”
I said that I often went to the Mediterranean.
“Indeed,” said Lady Muriel firmly. “I hope we may see something of you there.”
“I hope so, Lady Muriel.”
“And I hope,” she looked at me fixedly, “we may have the pleasure of seeing your wife.”
“I want to take her,” I said. “She may not be well enough to travel, though.”
It was nearly true, but Lady Muriel gave an ominous: “I see, Mr Eliot.”
Lady Muriel still expressed surprise that I should be going to Monte Carlo. She had all the incredulity of the rich that anyone should share their pleasures. Rather as though she expected me to answer with the name of an obscure pension, she asked: “May I ask where you are staying?”
“The Hermitage,” I said.
“Really, Mr Eliot,” she said. “Don’t you think that you will find it very expensive?”
During this conversation, I had noticed that
Joan’s glance had remained on Roy. Her own face was intent. It was still too young to show the line of her cheekbones. Her eyes were bright blue, and her hair brown and straight. It struck me that she had small, beautiful ears. But her face was open and harassed; I could guess too easily what had fascinated her: I looked across for a second, away from Lady Muriel, and saw Roy, stricken and remote. Usually he would have hung on to each word of the exchange, and parodied it later at my expense: now he was not listening. It seemed by an unnatural effort that he spoke again. Lady Muriel was remarking, in order to reprove my extravagance: “My brother considers it quite impossibly expensive to live in Monte itself. We find it much more practical to take this place outside.”
“How terrible it must be to be poor, Lady Mu,” broke in Roy’s voice. Joan started as he spoke: it made what she had seen appear ghostly. He was smiling now, he teased Lady Muriel, just as she wanted. She had noticed nothing, and was very happy. She crowed as he made fun of the Boscastle finances – which amused him, for he was enough his father’s son to have a lively interest in money. And she was delighted when he threatened not to be left out of the party at Christmas, but to join me at the hotel. She even regarded me with a kind of second-hand favour.
Her response to Roy was very simple, I thought. Life had never set her free, but underneath the armour she was healthy, vital and coarse-fibred. She had borne three daughters, but no sons. Roy was the son she had never had. And he was an attractive young man, utterly unimpressed by her magnificence, who saw through her, laughed, and shook her now and then. She could never find a way to tell people she liked them, but that did not matter with this young man, who could hear what she was really saying behind the gruff clumsy words.
And Roy? She was a continual pleasure to him in being exactly what she was, splendid in her unperceptive courage, her heavyfootedness, her snobbery, her stiff and monumental gusto. But there was much more. He came into immediate touch with her, as with so many people. He knew how she craved to be liked, how she could never confess her longing for affection, fun and love. It was his nature to give it. He was moved deeply, moved to a mixture of pity and love, by the unexpectedly vulnerable, just as he was by the tormented, the failures, and the strays. The unexpectedly vulnerable, the strong who suffered under a façade – sometimes I thought they moved him most. So he could not resist being fond of Lady Muriel; and even that night, when left to himself he would have known only despair, he was forced to make sure that she enjoyed her party.
