Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

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.

Roy and I had not long left the Lodge and were sitting in his rooms, when we heard a woman’s footsteps on the stairs.

“What’s this?” said Roy wearily.

It was Joan. She hesitated when she saw me, but then spoke direct to Roy.

“I’m sorry. But I had to come. At dinner you looked so — ill.”

“It’s nice of you, Joan,” he said, but I felt he was put out. “I’m pretty well.”

She looked at him with steady, intelligent, dark blue eyes.

“In all ways?”

“Oh yes.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Joan.

Roy made a grimace, and leant back.

“Look,” she said, her expression fierce, warm-hearted, painfully diffident, and full of power, “you don’t think I like intruding, do you? But I want to ask something. Is it this wretched fellowship? We’re bound to hear things we shouldn’t, you must know that.”

“It would be extremely surprising if you didn’t,” said Roy with a faint smile.

“We do,” said Joan, transformed by her rich laugh. “Well, I’ve heard about this wretched business. Is it that?”

“Of course not,” said Roy impatiently.

“I should like to ask Lewis Eliot,” she said, and turned to me. “Has that business got on his nerves?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “It would be better if it were settled, of course.” I was actually anxious that his election should come through quickly, so as to divert his mind (Brown had been satisfied with the results of Lyall’s and Foulkes’ visit, so much so that he was pressing to have a vacancy declared at the next college meeting).

“Are you sure?” Joan looked stubborn and doubtful. She spoke to Roy again: “You must see that it doesn’t matter. Whatever they do, it can’t really matter to you.”

“Just so,” said Roy. “You need to tell your father that. It would please him if I got in.”

“He worries too much about these people,” said Joan, speaking of her father with scorn and love. “You say you don’t. I hope it’s true.”

She gazed at him steadily.

“Yes?” he said.

“I was trying to imagine why you were looking as you did.”

“I can’t suggest anything,” said Roy. He had been restless all the time she was questioning him: had he not noticed the physical nervousness which had made her tremble as she entered, the utter diffidence which lay behind her fierce direct attack? He felt invaded, and though his words were light they held a sting.

“Some of your young women at Girton might give you some tips. Or you might get an idea if you read enough novels.”

“I’m not so young as you think,” said Joan, and a blush climbed up her strong neck, reddened her cheeks, left her bright-eyed, ashamed, angry and defenceless.

I went away from Roy’s rooms as the clocks were chiming midnight, and was in the depth of sleep when softly, persistently, a hand on my shoulder pulled me half-awake.

“Do you mind very much?” Roy was speaking. “I need to talk to you.”

“Put the light on,” I said crossly.

His face was haggard, and my ill-temper could not survive.

“It’s nothing original,” he said. “I can’t sleep, that’s all. It must be a very useful accomplishment, being able to sleep.”

He had not been to bed, he was still wearing a dinner jacket.

“What do you want to do?”

He shook his head. Then suddenly, almost eagerly, he said: “I think I need to go for a walk. Will you come?” He caught, with poignant, evanescent hope, at anything which would pass the night. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

I got up and dressed. It was just after three when we walked through the silent courts towards the back gate of the college. The roofs gleamed like silver under the harvest moon, and the shadows were dense, black, and sharply edged.

A light shone in an attic window; we knew the room, it was a scholar working late.

“Poor fool,” Roy whispered, as I was unlocking the small back door. “He doesn’t realise where that may lead.”

“Where?”

“It might even keep him here,” said Roy with a faint smile. “If he does too well. So that he’s woken up in the middle of the night and taken out for walks.”

We walked along Regent Street and Hills Road, straight out of the town. It was all quiet under the moon. It was brilliantly quiet. The road spread wide in the moonlight, dominating the houses as on a bright day; the houses stood blank-faced. Roy walked by my side with quick, light, easy steps. He was soothed by the sheer activity, by being able to move without thought, by the beautiful night. He talked, with a trace of his good-natured malice, about some of our friends. We had a good many in common, both men and women, and we talked scandal and Roy imitated them as we made our way along the gleaming, empty road.

But when we turned left at the Strangeways and crossed the fields, he fell more silent. For a quarter of a mile along the Roman road neither of us spoke. Then Roy said, quietly and clearly: “Old boy, I need some rest.”

“Yes,” I said. He did not mean sleep or bodily rest.

“Shall I ever get it?”

I could not answer that.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I think I was born out of my time. I should have been happier when it was easier to believe. Wouldn’t you have been happier? Wouldn’t you?”

He wanted me to agree. I was tempted to fall in, to muffle my answer, to give him a little comfort. Yet he was speaking with absolute nakedness. I could not escape the moment in which we stood.

I hesitated. Then I told the truth.

“I don’t think so.”

He walked on a few yards in silence, then looked me in the face.

“Lewis, have you never longed to believe in God?”

“No,” I said. I added: “Not in any sense which has much meaning. Not in any sense which would mean anything to you.”

“You don’t long to believe in God?” he insisted.

“No.”

“Yet you’re not stuffed.” His smile was intimate, mischievous, sad. “No man is less stuffed. In spite of your business manner. You even feel a good deal, don’t you? Not only about love. That’s the trouble with all those others” — he was dismissing some of our contemporaries — “they can only feel about love. They’re hollow, aren’t they? But I can’t accuse you of that. Yet you don’t long to believe—”

His eyes searched me, bright, puzzled, almost humorous. He had been mystified about it since he first knew me well. So much of our sense of life we felt in common: he could not easily or willingly accept that it led me to different fulfilments, even to different despairs. Most of all, he could not accept that I could get along, with fairly even spirits, and not be driven by the desperate needs that took hold of him in their ineluctable clarity.

He was quiet again. Then he said: “Lewis, I’ve prayed that I might believe in God.”

He looked away from me, down from the ridge; there was a veil of mist on the lower fields.