by C. P. Snow
She was trembling, and her voice shook.
“I don’t know how I stood it,” she cried. “I asked less than anyone in the world would have asked. And all I get is this.”
Then she caught my hand. The anger left her as quickly as it had risen. She had flared from hunger into ferocity, and now both fell away from her, and her tone was deep, tender and strong.
“You know, Lewis,” she said, “I can’t think of him like that. It’s perfectly true, he’s treated me abominably, yet I can’t help thinking that he’s really good. I see him with other people, and I think I am right to love him. I know he’s done wicked things. I know he’s done wicked things to me. But they seem someone else’s fault.”
The sun had dipped now to the edge of the sea. Her eyes glistened in the radiance; for the first time that night, they were filmed with tears. Her voice was even.
“I wish I could believe,” she said, “that he’ll be better off without me. I might be able to console myself if I believed it. But I don’t. How does he expect to manage? I’m sure he’s unhappier than any human soul. I can look after him. How does he expect to manage, if he throws it away?”
She cried out: “I don’t think he knows what will become of him.”
Part Three
The Last Attempt
24: Two Dismissals
After Boscastle I saw little of Roy for months. He altered his plans, and returned to Germany for the summer and autumn; I heard rumours that he was behaving more wildly than ever in his life, but the difference between us was at its deepest. We met one day in September, when he flew back at the time of Munich. It was a strange and painful afternoon. We knew each other so well; at a glance we knew what the other was feeling; though we were on opposite sides, we were incomparably closer than with an ally. Yet our words were limp, and once or twice a harsh note sounded.
I talked about myself, on the chance of drawing a confidence from him. But he was mute. He was mute by intention, I knew. He was keeping from me some inner resolve and a vestige of hope. He was secretive, hard, and restless.
I thought for the first time that the years were touching him. His smile was still brilliant, and made him look very young. But the dark nights had at last begun to leave their mark. The skin under his eyes was prematurely rough and stained, and the corners of his mouth were tight. His face was lined less than most men’s at twenty-eight – but it showed the wear of sadness. If one met him now as a stranger, one would have guessed that he had been unhappy. The mould was shaped for the rest of his life.
There was another change which, as I noticed with amusement, sometimes ruffled him. It ruffled him the morning of our discoveries about Bidwell.
Roy had come back to the college in November and was working in Cambridge until the new year. One December morning, Bidwell woke me in the grey twilight with his invariable phrase: “That’s nine o’clock, sir.” He pattered soft-footed about my bedroom and said, in his quiet soothing bedside voice: “Mr Calvert sends his compliments, sir. And he wonders if you would be kind enough to step up after breakfast. He says he has something to show you, sir.”
The message brought back more joyous days, when Roy “sent his compliments” two or three mornings a week – usually with some invitation or piece of advice attached, which Bidwell delivered, as honest-faced, as solemn, as sly-eyed, as a French mayor presiding over a wedding.
I went up to Roy’s rooms immediately after breakfast. His sitting-room was empty: the desks glinted pink and green and terra cotta in the crepuscular morning light. Roy called from his bedroom: “Bidwell is a devil. We need to stop him.”
He was standing in front of his mirror, brushing his hair. It was then I noticed that he was taking some care about it. His hair was going back quickly at the temples, more quickly than I had realised, since he managed to disguise it.
“Still vain,” I jeered. “Aren’t you getting too old for vanity?” I was oddly comforted to see him at it. The face in the mirror was sad and grave; yet somehow it brought him to earth, took the edge from my forebodings, to watch him seriously preoccupied about going bald.
“Nothing will stop it,” said Roy. “The women will soon be saying – ‘Roy, you’re bald.’ And I shall have to point a bit lower down and tell them – ‘Yes, but don’t you realise that I’ve got nice intelligent eyes?’”
Then he turned round.
“But it’s Bidwell we need to talk about. He’s a devil.”
Roy had now been back in his rooms for a fortnight. During that time, he had made a list of objects which, so far as he remembered, had disappeared during his months abroad. The list was long and variegated. It included two gowns, several bottles of spirits, a pair of silver candlesticks, most of his handkerchiefs and several of his smartest ties.
I was amused. Our relations with Bidwell had been curious for a long while past. We had known that he was mildly dishonest. There was a narrow line between what a college servant could regard by tradition as his perquisites and what his fingers should not touch. We had known for years that Bidwell crossed that line. Any food left over from parties, half-empty bottles – those were legitimate “perks”. But Bidwell did not content himself with them. He took a kind of tithe on most of the food and drink we ordered. Neither of us had minded much. I shut my eyes to it through sheer negligence and disinclination to be bothered: Roy was nothing like so careless, and had made one sharp protest. But we were neither of us made to persist in continuous nagging.
We happened to be very fond of Bidwell. He was a character, sly, peasant-wise, aphoristic. He had a vivid picture of himself as a confidential gentlemen’s servant, and acted up to it with us. He loved putting on his dress suit and waiting at our big dinner parties. He loved waking us up with extreme care after he had found the glasses of a heavy night. He loved being discreet and concealing our movements. “I hope I haven’t done wrong, sir,” he used to say with a knowing look. We did not mind his being lazy, we were prepared to put up with some mild dishonesty: we felt he liked us too much to go beyond a decent friendly limit.
Roy worked him harder than I did, but we were both indulgent and tipped him lavishly. Each of us had a suppressed belief that he was Bidwell’s favourite. Our guests at dinner parties, seeing that wise, rubicund, officiating face, told us how much they envied our luck in Bidwell. All in all, we thought ourselves that we were lucky.
I was half-shocked, half-amused, to hear of his depredations at Roy’s expense. I was still confident that he would not treat me anything like as badly: we had always been on specially amiable terms.
“You haven’t much for him to pinch,” said Roy. “He doesn’t seem to like books.”
Then suddenly a thought occurred to Roy.
“Do you look at your buttery bills?” he said.
“I just cast an eye over them,” I said guiltily.
“Untrue,” said Roy. “I bet you don’t. I once caught the old scoundrel monkeying with a bill. Lewis, I want to look at yours.”
I had not kept any, but Roy found copies in the steward’s office. Soon he glanced at me.
“You drink too much,” he said. “Alone, I suppose. I never knew.”
He made me study the bills. I used to order in writing one bottle of whisky a fortnight; on my account, time after time, I was put down for four bottles. I asked for the latest order, which, like the rest, had been taken to the office by Bidwell. The figure 1 had been neatly changed into a 4. As I looked at other items, I saw some other unpleasant facts. I felt peculiarly silly, angry and ill-used.
“He must have cost you quite a bit,” said Roy, who was doing sums on a piece of paper. “Haven’t you let him ‘bring things away’ from your tailor’s?”
“I’ll bring it away from the shop” was a favourite phrase of Bidwell’s.
“Yes,” I said helplessly.
“You’re dished, old boy,” said Roy. “We’re both dished, but you’re absolutely done.” He added: “I think we need to speak to Bidwell.”
Neither of us wanted to, but Roy took the lead. He sent another servant to find Bidwell, and we waited for him in Roy’s room.
Bidwell came in and stood just inside the door, his face benign and attentive.
“They said you were asking for me, sir?”
“Yes, Bidwell,” said Roy. “Too many things have gone from these rooms.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”
“Where have they gone?”
“What might the old things be, sir?” Bidwell was wary, deferential, impassive. In the past he had diverted Roy by his use of the word “old”, but now Roy had fixed him with a hard and piercing glance. He did not wilt, his manner was perfectly possessed.
Roy ran through the list.
“That’s a terrible lot to lose, I must say.” Bidwell frowned. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I never did like the steward using this as a guest room when you were away. We had men up for examinations” – Bidwell shook his head – “and I know I’m doing wrong in speaking, sir, but it’s the class of men we have here nowadays. It’s the class of men we get here today. Things aren’t what they used to be.”
Bidwell was not an ordinary man in any company, but he ran true to his trade in being a snob, open, nostalgic and unashamed.
Roy looked at me. I said: “I’ve been going through my buttery bills, Bidwell.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ve never ordered four bottles of whisky at a go since I came here.”
“Of course not, sir. You’ve never been one for whisky, have you? I spotted that as soon as you came on my staircase. It was different with an old gentleman I used to have before your time, sir. When I had you instead of him, it made a big old difference to my life.”
“I gave you an order for one bottle last week. The buttery say that when you handed it in, that order was for four bottles.”
Bidwell’s face darkened, and instantaneously cleared.
“I meant to tell you about that, sir. I may have done wrong. You must tell me if I have. But I heard the stock was running low, and I took it on myself to bring away what you might call a reserve–”
“Come off it, Bidwell,” said Roy clearly. “We know you’ve been cheating us. And you know we know.”
“I don’t like to hear you saying that, sir–”
“Look here,” said Roy, “we like you. We hope you like us. Do you want to spoil it all?”
Bidwell ceased to be impassive.
“It would break my heart, Mr Calvert, if either of you went away.”
“Why have you done this?”
“I’m glad you’ve both spoken to me,” said Bidwell. “It’s been hurting me – here.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I know I oughtn’t to have done what I have done. But I’ve got short of cash now and again. I don’t mind telling this to you two gentlemen – I’ve always said that everyone has a right to his fancy. But it’s made me do things I shouldn’t have done. I haven’t treated you right, I know I haven’t.”
His mouth was twitching, his eyes were tearful, we were all raw and distressed.
“Just so,” said Roy quietly. “Well, Bidwell, I’m ready to forget it. So is Mr Eliot. On one–”
“You’ve always been every inch a gentleman, sir. Both of you.”
“On one condition,” said Roy. “Listen. I mean this. If anything else goes from these rooms, I go straight to the steward. And you’ll be sacked out of hand.”
“It won’t happen again, sir.”
“Wait a minute. Listen again. I shall go through Mr Eliot’s bill myself each week. You can trust me to do it, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Mr Eliot can never be bothered with his old bills, sir.”
“I can,” said Roy. “You’ve got it clear? If you take another penny from either of us, I shan’t stop to ask Mr Eliot. I shall get you sacked.”
“Yes, sir. I’m very much obliged to both of you gentlemen.”
Bidwell went out, his face once more rubicund, open, benign and composed. Both Roy and I were puzzled. His emotion was genuine: yet he had pulled it out with his intuitive cunning. How had he played on that particular note, which was certain to affect us both? Was there a touch of triumph about his exit? Like Arthur Brown, Bidwell’s was a nature that became deeper and tougher when once one was past the affable fat man’s façade.
Roy teased me because I – “the great realist”, as he called me – was upset at Bidwell’s duplicity. He told me that I bore major treacheries better than domestic ones. For my part, I was thinking how final his own manner had become. In giving his ultimatum to Bidwell, his voice was keen, as though it were a relief to take this action, to take any kind of action. He was restless, he was driven to do things once for all.
I heard him speak with finality again before that term ended. The college chaplain had just resigned, as some friendly bishop had given him preferment. As soon as he heard the news, Arthur Brown set unhurriedly to work: the chaplaincy did not carry a fellowship, it had no political importance in the college, but Brown’s instinct for patronage was too strong for him: he was obliged to keep his hand in. So he went round “getting the feeling of a few people”, as he explained to Roy and me. The upshot was that, before he spoke to us, he had invited Udal to spend a night in college. “I’m not committing anyone, naturally,” said Arthur Brown. “But I thought it might be profitable to explore the ground a little. I’m afraid I’ve rather taken it for granted that you wouldn’t object to the idea, Calvert, if we get as far as mentioning his name. I remember that you backed him strongly at several meetings.”
Roy gave a slight smile – I wondered if it was at his own expense.
“I don’t know how you’d feel about it, Eliot? I’m inclined to think myself that Udal would be rather an addition to the combination room.”
“If you all want him,” I said, “I’m ready to fall in.” I looked at Roy: he smiled again, but the mention of Udal had disturbed him.
Udal arrived in time for dinner, and Arthur Brown brought him into hall. It was one of the few occasions that I had seen him wearing a dog-collar. He towered above the rest of us in the combination room, polite, cheerful, perfectly at ease. If he wanted the job, I thought in hall, he was doing pretty well. Perhaps he was a little too casual; most societies liked a touch of nervousness when a man was under inspection – not too much, but just a fitting touch. Udal would have been slightly too natural in any company or any interview.
After we had drunk port in the combination room, we moved on to Brown’s rooms – Brown and Udal, Roy and I. The room was warm, the fire bright as usual: and as usual Brown went straight to unlock his cupboard.
“I don’t know what the company would say to a sip of brandy,” he remarked. “Myself, I find it rather gratifying at this time of night.”
We sat round the fire with our glasses in our hands, and Brown began to speak with luxurious caution.
“Well, Udal,” he said, “we were a bit rushed before dinner, but I tried to give you the lie of the land. We mustn’t promise more than we can perform. The chaplain is elected by the college, and the college is capable of doing some very curious things. Put it another way: I never feel certain that we’ve got a man in until I see it written down in black and white in the order book. I shouldn’t be treating you fairly if I gave you the impression that we could offer you the chaplaincy tonight. But I don’t think I’m going further than I should if I say this – let me see” – Brown chose his words deliberately – “if you see your way to letting your name go forward, I regard it as distinctly possible that we should be able to pull it off. I can go as far as that. I’ve spoken to one or two people, and I’m fairly satisfied that I’m not being over-optimistic.”
This meant that Arthur Brown had a majority assured for Udal, if he decided to stand. There would be bitter opposition from Despard-Smith, but the old man was losing his power, even on clerical matters. Step by step Arthur Brown had become the most influential person in the college.
“Of course there must be,” said Arthur Brown, who had a horror of premature decisions. “I should have thought you ought to sleep on it, before you even give us an indication of which way you’re going to come down. I don’t mean to suggest” – Brown added – “that you can possibly give us an answer tomorrow. But you might be able to produce one or two first impressions.”
I was certain that Udal would not take the job, and so was Roy. I did not know about Brown. He was so shrewd and observant that he must have caught the intonation of refusal: but it was part of his habit to proceed with negotiations for a decent customary period, even when it was clear that the other had made up his mind. Brown’s intuitions were quick, but he disliked appearing to act on them. He preferred all the panoply of reasonable discussion. He knew as well as any man that most decisions are made on the spot and without thought; but it was proper and wise to behave as though men were as rational and deliberate as they pretended to be. So, with every appearance of interest and enjoyment, he answered Udal’s questions about the chaplaincy, the duties, stipend, possibilities of a fellowship: he met objections, raised some of his own, compared prospects, examined the details of Udal’s living. He even said: “If, as I very much hope, we finally manage to get you here, Udal, there is just one slightly delicate matter I might take this opportunity of raising. I take it that you wouldn’t find it absolutely necessary to introduce observances that some of us might think were rather too high?”
“I think I could promise that,” said Udal with a cheerful smile.
“I’m rather relieved to hear you say so,” Brown replied. “I shouldn’t like to interfere between any man and his religion. Some of the Catholics we’ve had here are as good chaps as you’re ever likely to meet. But I do take the view rather strongly that the public services of the college ought to keep a steady middle course. I shouldn’t like to see them moving too near the Holy Joes.”
