by C. P. Snow
They had all gathered rumours about Roy’s sympathies, they had heard some of his comments in hall. Ironically, his name was flaunted about, this time as an authority, by old Despard-Smith. The old man was virulently pro-Munich, bitterly in favour of any other accommodation. He kept quoting Roy: “Calvert has just come back from Germany and he says…” “Calvert told someone yesterday…” Roy smiled, to find himself approved of at last in that quarter.
But Francis Getliffe did not smile at all. He was away from Cambridge many days in that summer term; we knew he was busy on Air Ministry experiments, but it was only much later that we realised he had been occupied with the first installations of radar. He came back and dined in hall one night, looking as tired as Roy – looking in fact more worn, though not so hag-ridden. It happened to be a night when most of the left were not dining. Nor was Winslow, who was an old-fashioned liberal but spoke caustically on Getliffe’s side – he had quarrelled acidly with the older men over Munich.
That night Despard-Smith and others were saying that war was quite unnecessary. Francis Getliffe, short-tempered with fatigue, told them that they would soon present Hitler with the whole game. “Calvert says,” began Despard-Smith. Getliffe interrupted him: “Unless you all keep your nerve, the devils have got us. It’s our last chance. I’m tired of this nonsense.”
The high table was truculent and quarrelsome in its own fashion, but it was not used to words so openly harsh. With some dignity, old Despard-Smith announced that he did not propose to drink port that night: “I have been a fellow for fifty years next February, and it is too late to begin having my head bitten off in this hall.”
Arthur Brown, Roy, Francis Getliffe and I were left in the combination room, and Brown promptly ordered a bottle of port.
“It’s rather sensible to drink an occasional bottle,” said Brown, looking kindly and shrewdly at the others. “We never know whether it will be so accessible in the near future.”
“I’m sorry, Brown,” said Francis Getliffe. “I oughtn’t to have cursed the old man.”
“It’s all right, old chap,” said Arthur Brown comfortingly. “Everyone wants to address a few well-chosen remarks to Despard on some subject or other. How are you yourself?” He smiled anxiously at Francis, for Arthur Brown, whatever his hopes of a compromise, believed in keeping his powder dry: and hence scientists wearing themselves out in military preparations had to be cherished.
“In good order,” said Francis. But it was false: he seemed as though he should be put to bed for a fortnight. He was painfully frayed, thinking of his experiments, thinking of how he could flog himself on, thinking of how many months were left. He turned to Roy: “Calvert, you’re doing harm.”
“Harm to what?”
“To our chances of winning this war.”
“The war hasn’t come.”
“It will. You know as well as I do that it will.”
“I’m frightened that it will,” said Roy.
“The only thing to be frightened about,” said Francis harshly, “is that we shall slide out of it. That’s what I’m frightened of. If we get out of it this time, we’re finished. The fascists have won.”
“I suppose you mean the Germans,” said Arthur Brown, who never accepted anything which he suspected was a left-wing formula. “I don’t think I can go all the way with you, Getliffe. It might suit our book to have another breathing space.”
“No,” said Francis. “Our morale will weaken. Theirs will get tougher.”
“Yes,” said Roy clearly, “theirs will get tougher.”
“You like the idea, don’t you?” Francis cried.
“They are remarkable people.”
“Good God.” Francis’ face was flushed with passion. “You like authority wherever it rears its head.”
“That may be so. I haven’t been very clever at finding it, have I?”
Roy had spoken with the lightness that deceived, and Francis did not realise that he had struck much deeper than he knew. Neither Arthur Brown nor I could take our eyes from Roy’s face.
“I don’t know what you’ve found,” said Francis impatiently. “I should have thought you might be content among your fascist friends.”
“If so,” said Roy, “I might have stayed there.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“No,” said Roy, “you wouldn’t see why not.”
“You’d be less dangerous there than you are here,” shouted Francis, stung to bitter anger.
“I dare say. I’m not so concerned about that as you are.”
“Then you’ve got to be,” Francis said, and the quarrel became fiercer. Arthur Brown tried to steady them, offered to present another bottle of port, but they were too far gone. Brown listened with a frown of puzzlement and concern. He admired Francis Getliffe, but his whole outlook, even his idioms, were foreign to Brown. Francis took it for granted, in the way in which he and I and many of our generation had been brought up, that there were just two sides in the world, and that the battle between them was joined, and that no decent man could hesitate an instant. “My Manichaeans had the same idea,” said Roy, which made Francis more angry.
To Francis, to all men like him and many less incisive, it all seemed starkly plain in black-and-white. Issues have to seem so at the fighting-points of history. It was only later, looking back, that one saw the assumptions we had made, the ignorant hopes we had indulged, the acts of faith that looked strange in the light of what was actually to come. At that moment, Francis was saying, everything must be sacrificed to win: this was the great crisis, and until it was over we could not afford free art, disinterested speculation, the pleasures of detachment, the vagaries of the lonely human soul. They were luxuries. This was no time for luxuries. Our society was dying, and we could not rest until we had the new one safe.
Roy replied, sometimes with his light grave clarity, sometimes with the kind of frivolous gibes that infuriated Francis most. “Do you believe everything that’s written in Cyrillic letters?” asked Roy. “I must learn Russian. I’m sure you’d be upset if I translated Pravda to you every night.” He told Francis that communism (or Francis’ approach to it, for Francis was not a member of the party) was a “romantic” creed, for all its dryness. “It’s realistic about the past. Entirely so. But it’s wildly romantic about the future. Why, it believes it’s quite easy to make men good. It’s far more optimistic than Christianity. You need to read Saint Augustine, you know. Or Pascal. Or Hügel. But then they knew something of life.”
Once or twice Brown chuckled, but he was uneasy. He was deeply fond of Roy; much of what Roy said came far nearer to him than anything of Francis’.
But Brown was cautious and realistic. He believed Roy was completely reckless – and every word he said on Germany filled Brown with alarm. Brown was ready to anticipate that his protégés would get into trouble. Roy’s folly might be the most painful of all.
As for me, I was watching for the terrible elation. His wretchedness had weighed him down for weeks; it was melancholy at its deepest, and it was beginning to break into the lightning flashes.
I was expecting an outburst, and this time I was terrified where it would end.
It was that sign I was listening for, not anything else in their quarrel. But Roy’s last words that night were quite calm.
“You think I’m dangerous, don’t you?” he said. “Believe this: you and your friends are much more so. You know you’re right, don’t you? It has never crossed your mind that you might be wrong. And that doesn’t seem to you – dreadful.”
For a few days nothing seemed to change. Roy did not often dine in hall, but I listened in dread for each rumour about him: when I saw Arthur Brown walking towards me in the court, intending to carry me off for a confidential talk, I wanted to shy away – but it was only to consider whether the time had come to “ventilate” the question of a new fellow. Wars might be near us, but Arthur Brown took it for granted that the college government must be carried on. I asked
Bidwell each morning how Mr Calvert was. “He’s not getting his sleep, sir,” said Bidwell. “No, he’s not getting his sleep. As I see it, sir – I know it’s not my place to say it – but it’s all on account of his old books. He’s overtaxed his brain. That’s how I see it, sir.”
Then, as a complete surprise, I received a note from Lady Muriel. She was staying at the University Arms: would I excuse the short notice, and go to the hotel for tea? I knew that she had arrived, I knew that Roy had given her dinner the night before: but I was astonished to be summoned. I had never been exactly a favourite of hers. I felt a vague malaise: I was becoming morbidly anxious.
Lady Muriel had taken a private sitting-room, looking out upon Parker’s Piece. She greeted me as she used to in the Lodge; she seemed almost to fancy that she was still there.
“Good afternoon, Mr Eliot. I am glad that you were able to come.” Her neck was stiff, her back erect as ever; but it took more effort than it used. Trouble was telling, even on her. “I will ring at once for tea.”
She asked about my work, my pupils and – inexorably – my wife. It all sounded like the rubric of days past. She poured out my cup of Indian tea; it was like her, I thought, to remember that I disliked China, to disapprove of my taste and attribute it firmly to my lowly upbringing, and yet still to feel that a hostess was obliged to provide for it. She put her cup down, and regarded me with her bold innocent eyes.
“Mr Eliot, I wish to ask you a personal question.”
“Lady Muriel?”
“I do not wish to pry. But I must ask this question. Have you noticed anything wrong with Roy?”
I was taken aback.
“He’s desperately overstrained,” I said.
“I considered that you might have noticed something,” said Lady Muriel. “But I believe it is worse. I believe he has some worry on his mind.”
She stared at me.
“Do you know what this worry is, Mr Eliot?”
“He’s very sad,” I began. “But–”
“Mr Eliot,” Lady Muriel announced, “I am a great believer in woman’s intuition. Men are more gifted than we are intellectually. I should never have presumed to disagree with the Master on a purely intellectual matter. But it takes a woman to see that a man is hiding some private worry. Roy has always been so wonderfully carefree. I saw the difference at once.”
She sighed.
“Is it because of some woman?” she said suddenly.
“No.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“We must put our finger on it,” said Lady Muriel. She was baffled, distressed, unhappy; her voice was firm and decided, but only by habit; her whole heart went out to him. “Surely he knows we want to help him. Does he know that I would do anything to help him?”
“I am quite sure he does.”
“I am very glad to hear you say that. I should like to have told him. But there are things one always finds it impossible to say.”
She turned her head away from me. She was looking out of the window, when she said: “I tried to get him to confide this worry last night.”
“What did you do?”
“I used a little finesse. Then I asked him straight out.”
She burst out: “He put me off. I know men like to keep their secrets. But there are times when it is better for them to talk. If only they would see it. It is so difficult to make them. And one feels that one is only an intruder.”
She faced me again. Then I knew why she had averted her eyes. She was fighting back the tears.
She collected herself, and spoke to me with exaggerated firmness, angry that I had seen her weak.
“There is one thing I can do, Mr Eliot. I shall ring up my daughter Joan. She knows Roy better than I do. Perhaps she will be able to discover what is wrong. Then between us we could assist him.”
I used all my efforts to dissuade her. I argued, persuaded, told her that it was unwise. But the only real reason I could not give: and Lady Muriel stayed invincibly ignorant.
“Mr Eliot, you must allow me to judge when to talk to my daughter about a common friend.” She added superbly: “My family have been brought up to face trouble.”
On the spot, she telephoned Joan, who was in London. There could be only one answer, the answer I had been scheming to avoid, the answer which Joan would want to give from the bottom of her heart. It came, of course. Joan would catch the next train and see Roy that evening.
Lady Muriel said goodbye to me.
“My daughter and I will do our best, Mr Eliot. Thank you for giving me your advice.”
I went straight from the hotel to Roy’s rooms. It was necessary that he should be warned at once. His outer door was not locked, as it was most evenings now – but he himself was lying limp in an armchair. There was no bottle or glass in sight; there was no manuscript under his viewing lamp, and no book open; it was as though he had lain there, inert, for hours.
“Hullo,” he said, from a far distance.
“I think you should know,” I said. “Joan will be here in an hour or two.”
“Who?”
I repeated my message. It was like waking him from sleep.
At last he spoke, but still darkly, wearily, from a depth no one could reach.
“I don’t want to see her.”
Some time afterwards he repeated: “I don’t want to see her. I saw her in Berlin. It made things worse. I’ve done her enough harm.”
“Roy,” I said, pressingly, “I’m afraid you must.”
His answer came after a long interval.
“I won’t see her. It will be worse for her. It will be worse for both of us. I’m not fit to see anyone.”
“You can’t just turn her away,” I said. “She’s trying to care for you. You must be good to her.”
Another long interval.
“I’m not fit to see anyone.”
“You must,” I said. “You’ve meant too much to her, you know.”
Up to then I had had very little hope. In a moment I should have given up. But then I saw an astonishing thing. With a prodigious strain, as though he were calling frantically on every reserve of body and mind, Roy seemed to bring himself back into the world. He did not want to leave his stupor: there he had escaped, perhaps for hours: but somehow he forced himself. The strain lined him with grief and suffering. He returned to searing miseries, to the appalling melancholy. Yet he was himself normal in speech, quiet, sad, able to smile, very gentle.
“I need to put a face on it,” he said. “Poor dear. I shouldn’t have brought her to this.”
He glanced at me, almost mischievously: “Am I fit to be seen now?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve got to look pretty reasonable when Joan comes. It’s important, Lewis. She mustn’t think I’m ill.” He added, with a smile: “She mustn’t think I’m – mad.”
“It will be all right.”
“If she thinks I’m really off it,” again he smiled, “she will want to look after me. And I might want her to. That mustn’t happen, Lewis. I owe her more than the others. I can’t inflict myself upon her now.”
He went on: “She will try to persuade me. But it would do us both in. I was never free with her. And I should get worse. I don’t know why it is.”
Nor did I. Of all women, she was most his equal. Yet she was the only one with whom he was not spontaneous. Somehow she had invaded him, she had not let him lose himself; by the very strength of her devotion, by her knowledge of him, by her share in his struggle, she had brought him back to the self he craved to throw away.
“Poor dear,” he said. “I shall never find anyone like her. I must make her believe that I’m all right without her. If there’s no other way, I must tell her I’m better without her. That’s why I’ve got to look reasonable, Lewis. I’ve done her enough harm. She must get free of me now. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me.”
He smiled at me with sad and mischievous irony. Then he
spoke in a tone that was matter-of-fact, quiet, and utterly and intolerably unguarded.
“I hate myself,” said Roy. “I’ve brought unhappiness to everyone I’ve known. It would have been better if I’d never lived. I should be wiped out so that everyone could forget me.”
I could not go through the pretence of consoling him, I could not reply until he spoke again. He had spoken so quietly and naturally that a shiver ran down my spine. It was anguish to hear such naked, simple anguish. He said: “You would have been much happier if I’d never lived, old boy. You can’t deny it. This isn’t the time to be hearty, is it?”
“Never mind about happiness,” I said. “It can cut one off from too much. My life would have been different without you. I prefer it as it is.”
For a second, his face lit up.
“You’ve done all you could,” he said. “I needed to tell you that – before it’s too late. You’ve done more than anyone. You’ve done more even than she did. Now I must send her away. There will only be you whom I’ve ever talked to.”
He was sitting back in his chair. The limpness had gone, and his whole body was easy and relaxed. His face was smoothed by the golden evening light.
“You won’t sack me just now, will you?” he said. “Whatever I do? I shall need you yet.”
I went back to my rooms, and from the window seat watched Joan enter the court. The undergraduates were in hall, she was alone on the path, walking with her gawky, sturdy step. She passed out of sight on her way to Roy’s staircase. I sat there gazing down; I had missed dinner myself, I could not face high table that night; the court gleamed in the summer evening. The silence was broken as men came out of hall; they shouted to each other, sat on the edge of the grass; then they went away. Lights came on in some of the dark little rooms, though it was not yet sunset and bright in the court. Beside one light I could see a young man reading: the examinations were not yet finished, and the college was quiet for nine o’clock on a summer night.
