Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

“Just so,” said Roy.

“From what I remember of her,” said Brown, “of course it was only a glimpse, I shouldn’t have regarded her as particularly anxious to settle down as a parson’s wife in a nice quiet country living.”

“No?” said Roy blankly. He did not like the sight of their names in print: he was not going to be drawn.

But, annoyed though he was at the news, he could not help chuckling with laughter at a letter from Lady Muriel. It was the only time in those dark weeks that I saw him utterly unshadowed. He had written several times to Lady Muriel about that time; for the Boscastles were visiting Cambridge in June, to mark the end of Humphrey’s last term at Magdalene, and Roy had been persuading Lady Muriel to come with them. So far as I knew, he had not asked Joan — I was not certain what had happened between them, but I was afraid that it was the final, irreparable break.

Roy showed me Lady Muriel’s letter. She was delighted that he was pressing her to come to Cambridge; since she left the Lodge, she had been curiously diffident about appearing in the town. Perhaps it was because, after domineering in the Lodge, she could not bear taking a dimmer place. But she was willing to accompany the Boscastles, now that Roy had invited her. She went on: “You will have seen this extraordinary action on the part of our vicar. I am compelled to take very strong exception to it. Unfortunate is too mild a word. I know this young woman used to be a friend of yours, but that was a different matter. You may sometimes have thought I was old-fashioned, but I realise men have their temptations. That cannot however be regarded as any excuse for a clergyman. He is in a special position, and I have never for a single moment contemplated such an outrage from any vicar of our own church. I do not know what explanations to give to our tenants, and I find Helen no help in this, and very remiss in performing her proper duties. I have found it necessary to remind her of her obligations (though naturally I am always very careful about keeping myself in the background). I consider our vicar has put me in an impossible position. I do not see how I can receive this woman in our house. Hugh says it is your fault for bullying him into giving the living to our present vicar — but I defend you, and tell him that it takes a woman to understand women, and that I knew this woman was a designing hussy from the first moment I set eyes on her. Men are defenceless against such creatures. I have noticed it all my life, or certainly since Hugh got married. I shall be most surprised,” Lady Muriel finished in magnificent rage, “if this woman does not turn out to be barren .”

“Now just why has Lady Mu decided that?” cried Roy.

It gave him an hour’s respite. But the days were dragging by in black searing fears and ravaged nights, in anguish from the moment when, after he had lain awake through the white hours of the early morning, he roused himself exhaustedly to open the daily paper. The news glared at him — for his melancholy was the melancholy of his nature, but it had drawn into him the horror of war.

Most of the college were uncomfortable and strained about the prospect of war; only one or two of the very old escaped. Several men were torn, though not so deeply and tragically as Roy. They were solid conservatives, men of property, used to the traditional way of life; they were not fools, they knew a war must destroy many of their comforts and perhaps much else; they had hated communism for twenty years, in their hearts they still hated it more than national socialism; yet, with the obstinate patriotic sense of their class and race, they were slowly coming to feel that they might have to fight Germany. They felt it with extreme reluctance. Even now, they were chary of the prospect of letting “that man Churchill” into the cabinet. There might still be time for a compromise. In May, that was the position which Arthur Brown took up. He was just as stubborn as he was in college politics: he was appreciably more anti-German than most of the college right. Some were much more willing to appease at almost any cost.

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.”