Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

“Just so,” said Roy. “Just so.”

It was a dark, foggy afternoon as we walked up Piccadilly. Cars’ headlights were making swathes in the mist, and Roy’s voice sounded more than ever clear as he talked to the Master all the way to Burlington House. He was intensely, brilliantly excited. A laugh kept ringing out. On the Master’s other side, I walked silent and apprehensive in the murk. Could I give him calm, could anyone? Was it sensible or wise to try now? I was tied by doubt and ignorance. I knew he was suffering, but I did not know how justified my apprehensions were.

As we took off our coats, and the Master left us for a moment, I made one attempt.

“Are you desperately anxious to attend this pantomime?” I said.

“Why do you ask?” said Roy sharply.

“There are other things which might amuse us—”

“Oh no,” said Roy. “I need to be here.” Then he smiled at me. “Don’t you stay. It was stupid of me to drag you here. You’re certain to be bored. Let’s meet later.”

I hesitated, and said: “No. I may as well come in.”

The Academy room was quite small and cosy; the lights were thrown back from the fog-darkened windows. There were half a dozen men on the dais, among them Lyall and Colonel Foulkes. The Master was placed among minor dignitaries in the front row beneath. Perhaps sixty or seventy men were sitting in the room, and it struck me that nearly all of them were old. Bald heads shone, white hair gleamed, under the lights. As the world grew more precarious, rich young men did not take to these eccentric subjects with such confidence: amateurs flourished most, as those old men had flourished, in a tranquil and secure age.

Roy found me a chair, and then suddenly went off by himself to sit under the window. My concern flared up: but in a moment the meeting began.

The chairman made a short speech, explaining that we had come to mark Sir Oulstone’s seventieth birthday and express our gratitude for his work. As the speech went on, Sir Oulstone’s head inclined slowly, weightily, with dignity and satisfaction, at each mention of his own name.

Then came three accounts of Central Asian studies. The first, given by an Oxford professor with a high, fluting voice, struck me as straightforward old-fashioned history — the various conquering races that had swept across the plateau, the rise and fall of dynasties, and so on. The second, by Foulkes, dealt with the deciphering of the linguistic records. Foulkes was a rapid, hopping, almost unintelligible speaker, and much of the content was technical and would have been, even if I could have heard what he said, unintelligible to me: yet one could feel that he was a master of his subject. He paid a gabbling, incoherent and enthusiastic compliment to Roy’s work on Soghdian.

The third account I found quite fascinating. It was delivered in broken English by a refugee, and it described how the history of Central Asia between 500 bc and ad 1000 had been studied by applying the methods of archaeology and not relying so much on documentary evidence — by measuring areas of towns at different periods, studying the tools men used and their industrial techniques. It was the history of common men in their workaday lives, and it made sense of some of the glittering, burbling, dynastic records. The pioneer work had been done over forty years before, said the speaker vigorously, in the original articles of Lyall and Erzberger: then the real great step forward had been taken by Lyall himself, in his famous and classical book.

There was steady clapping. Sir Oulstone inclined his head very slowly. The speaker bowed to him, and Sir Oulstone inclined his head again.

The speech came to an end. It had been a masterpiece of exposition, and the room stirred with applause. There followed a few perfunctory questions, more congratulations to Sir Oulstone from elderly scholars in the front row, one or two more questions. The meeting was warm with congratulation and self-congratulation, feet were just beginning to get restless, it was nearly time to go.

Then I heard Roy’s voice, very clear.

“Mr Chairman, may I ask a question?”

He was standing by the window, with vacant chairs round him. Light fell directly on his face, so that it looked smooth and young. He was smiling, his eyes were brilliant, shining with exaltation.

“Of course, Mr—”

“Calvert,” said Roy.

“Ah yes, Mr Calvert,” said the chairman. Sir Oulstone smiled and bowed.

“We’ve listened to this conspectus of Asian social history,” said Roy precisely. “I should like to ask — how much credit for the present position should be given to the late Dr Erzberger?”

No one seemed to feel danger. The chairman smiled at the lecturer, who replied that Erzberger deserved every credit for his share in the original publications.

“Thank you,” said Roy. “But it does not quite meet my point. This subject has made great progress. Is it possible for no one to say how much we need to thank Dr Erzberger for?”

The chairman looked puzzled. There was a tension growing in the room. But Sir Oulstone felt nothing of it as he rose heavily and said: “Perhaps I can help Mr Calvert, sir.”

“Thank you,” said the chairman.

“Thank you, Sir Oulstone,” came Roy’s voice, clear, resounding with sheer elation.

“I am grateful to my young friend, Mr Calvert,” said Sir Oulstone, suspecting nothing, “for bringing up the name of my old and respected collaborator. It is altogether appropriate that on this occasion when you are praising me beyond my deserts, my old helper should not be forgotten. Some of you will remember, though it was well before Mr Calvert’s time,” Sir Oulstone smiled, “that poor Erzberger, after helping me in my first efforts, was cut off in his prime. That was a tragedy for our subject. It can be said of him, as Newton said of Cotes, that if he had lived we should have learned something.”

“Just so,” said Roy. “So he published nothing except the articles with you, Sir Oulstone?”

“I am afraid that is the fact.”

Roy said, quietly, with extreme sharpness: “Could you tell us what he was working on before he died?”

By now many in the room had remembered the old scandal. Faces were frowning, intent, distressed, curious. But Sir Oulstone was still impervious, self-satisfied, opaque. He still looked at Roy as though he were a young disciple. Sir Oulstone acted as though he had never heard of the scandal: if there were no basis for it, if he were quite innocent, that could have been true.

As Roy waited for the answer, his glance rested on me. For a second I looked into his flashing, triumphant eyes, begging him to stop. Fiercely, impatiently, he shook his head. He was utterly possessed.

“Alas,” said Sir Oulstone, “we have no trace of his last years of work.”

“Did he not work — on the subject of your own book?”

“There was no trace, I say.” Suddenly Sir Oulstone’s voice was cracked and angry.

“Did no one publish his manuscripts?”

“We could find no manuscripts when he died.”

“You could find no result of years of work?” cried Roy in acute passionate incredulity.

“He left nothing behind him.”

“ Remarkable .” The single word dropped into the hushed room. It plucked all nerves with its violence, scorn, and extreme abandon.

Sir Oulstone had turned bitterly angry.

“I do not consider this is very profitable. Perhaps, as Mr Calvert is a newcomer to our subject, I had better refer to my obituaries of Erzberger in the two journals. I regard these questions as most unnecessary, sir.”

He sat down. Roy was still on his feet.

“Thank you, Mr Chairman,” he said in his normal tone, quiet, composed and polite. “I am so sorry to have taken the time of the meeting.”