Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

Winslow replied in defeat and dejection: “I don’t think it’s necessary. It explains itself.”

He said nothing more. He sat there, the object of curious pitying, triumphant glances. There were some who remembered his arrogance, his cutting words. An opponent made several financial proposals: Winslow had not the strength even to object.

Then the Senior Tutor (who had been an enemy of Winslow’s for years past) went through the examination results name by name. There were startling successes: there was a man who had a great academic future; there were failures of the hardworking and dense, there were failures among the gilded youth. There was one failure owing to a singular personal story. The Senior Tutor went through from subject to subject, until at last he came to history, which young Winslow had studied. The table was very quiet. I looked at Roy, and his expression filled me with alarm. Roy’s eyes were fixed on Winslow, eyes full of angry pity, sad and wild. Since the claret party he had been unendurably depressed, and much of the time he had shut himself up alone. Now his face was haunted.

The Senior Tutor congratulated Brown on the performance of one pupil. He exuded enthusiasm over another. Then he looked at his list and paused. He said: “I think there’s nothing else to report,” and hurried on to the next subject.

It had been meant as sympathy, I believed. How Winslow felt it, no one could know. He sat silent, eyes fixed on the table, as though he had not heard.

We had not quite finished the business by one o’clock, but broke off for lunch. Lunch was laid in an inner room; it was cold, but on the same profuse scale as the tea before the usual meetings. There were piles of sandwiches, pâtés, jellies, meringues, pastries, savouries, jugs of beer, decanters of hock, claret, burgundy: the sight of the meal drew approving cries from some of the old men.

Most of the society ate their lunch with zest. Winslow stood apart, staring out of the window, taking one single sandwich. Roy watched him; he looked at no one but Winslow, he said nothing, his eyes sharpened. I noticed him push the wine away, and I was temporarily relieved. Someone spoke to him, and received a sharp uncivil answer, unlike Roy even at his darkest.

There were only a few speeches after lunch, and then the meeting closed. Men filed out, and I waited for Roy. Then I noticed Winslow still sitting at the table, the bursarial documents, order-book and files in front of him: he stayed in his place, too lost and dejected to move. Roy’s eyes were on him. The three of us were left alone in the room. Without glancing at me or speaking, Roy sat down by Winslow’s side.

“I am dreadfully sorry about Dick,” he said.

“That’s nice of you.”

“And I am dreadfully sorry you’ve had to sit here today. When one’s unhappy, it’s intolerable to have people talking about one. It’s intolerable to be watched.”

He was speaking with extreme and morbid fervour, and Winslow looked up from the table.

“You don’t care what they say,” Roy cried, his eyes alight, “but you want them to leave you alone. But none of us are capable of that much decency. I haven’t much use for human beings. Have you, Winslow, have you? You know what people are feeling now, don’t you? They’re feeling that you’ve been taken down a peg or two. They’re thinking of the times you’ve snubbed them. They’re saying complacently how arrogant and rude you’ve been. But they don’t matter. None of us matter.”

His tone was not loud but very clear, throbbing with an anguished and passionate elation.

Winslow stared at him, his eyes startled, bewildered, wretched.

“There is something in what they say, young man,” he said with resignation.

“Of course there is. There’s something in most things they say about anyone.” Roy laughed. It was a terrible, heart-rending sound. “They say I’m a waster and seduce women. There’s something in that too.”

I moved round the table, and put a hand on his shoulder. Frantically he shook it off.

“Would you like to know how much there is in it?” he cried. “We’re both miserable. It may relieve you just a bit. Would you like to know how many loving invitations I’ve coaxed for myself — out of women connected with this college?” Winslow was roused out of his wretchedness.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Calvert. It’s no concern of mine.”

“That’s why I shall do it.” Roy took a sheet of blank paper, began to write fast in his fluent scholar’s hand. I seized his arm, and his pen made a line across the paper.

He swore with frenzied glee. “Go away, Lewis,” he said. His face was wild with a pure, unmixed, uncontrollable elation. At that moment the elation had reached its height. “Go away. You’re no use. This is only for Winslow and me. I need to finish it now.”

He wrote a few more words, dashed off his signature, gave the sheet to Winslow. “This has been a frightful day for you,” Roy cried. “Keep this to remind you that people don’t matter. None of us matter.”

He smiled, said good afternoon, went with quick strides out of the room.

There was a silence.

“This is distressing,” said Winslow.

“He’ll calm down soon.” I was alert, ready to explain, ready to guard secrets once more.

“I never had any idea that Calvert was capable of making an exhibition of himself. Is this the first time it has happened?”

I evaded and lied. I had never seen Roy lose control until this afternoon, I said. It was a shock to me, as it was to Winslow. Of course, Roy was sensitive, highly-strung, easily affected by the sorrows of his friends. He was profoundly upset over the Master, and it was wearing his nerves to see so much suffering. I tried to keep as near the truth as I safely could. In addition, I said, taking a risk, Roy was very fond of Winslow’s son.

Winslow was recalled to his own wretchedness. He looked away from me, absently, and it was some time before he asked, in a flat tone: “I’m very ignorant of these matters. Should you say that Calvert was seriously unstable?”

I did not tell Winslow any of the truth. He was a very clever man, but devoid of insight; and I gave him the sort of explanation which most people find more palatable than the strokes of fate. I said that Roy was physically not at his best. His blood pressure was low, which helped to make him despondent. I explained how he had been overworking for years, how his long solitary researches had affected his health and depressed his spirits.

“He’s a considerable scholar, from all they say,” said Winslow indifferently. “I had my doubts about him once, but I’ve found him an engaging young man.”

“There’s nothing whatever to worry about.”

“You know him well,” said Winslow. “I expect you’re right. I think you should persuade him to take a good long holiday.”

Winslow looked down at the sheet of paper. It was some time before he spoke. Then he said: “So there is something in the stories that have been going round?”

“I don’t know what he has written there,” I said. “I’ve no doubt that the stories are more highly painted than the facts. Remember they’ve been told you by people who envy him.”

“Maybe,” said Winslow. “Maybe. If those people have this communication,” he tapped the paper, “I don’t see how Master Calvert is going to continue in this college. The place will be too hot to hold him.”

“Do you want to see that happen?” I was keyed up to throw my resolve against his. Winslow was thinking of his enemies in the college, how a scandal about Roy would confute them, how he could use it in the present struggle. He stared at me, and told me so without any adornment.

“You can’t do it,” I said, with all the power I could call on.