Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

Joan’s feelings were far less simple. Although she had not spoken to him for two years, she could divine some of the reasons that had impelled him. She imagined how the war must outrage him. She knew how reckless he was and how self-destructive. Her heart went out to cherish him — and yet she had loved him partly because of that dark side. She was frail enough to rejoice that he did not find his life sweeter after he had deserted her. The news had softened her face, revived her yearning tenderness. It shone out of her: she was both relieved and proud.

She and her mother had one point in common. They did not give much thought to his danger. It was the first thing that had struck me: as the committee room went round, I was thinking of that only: he stood about an even chance of coming through alive. Yet Lady Muriel and Joan took it without a blench. Partly, of course, they were ignorant of the statistics, Lady Muriel entirely so; they did not realise how dangerous it was; they had not been, as I had, behind the scenes in the bitter disputes about the bombing “master plan”. But, even if they had, it would not have made much difference. They were stout-hearted themselves, and they assumed the same courage in their men. They were bred to a tradition of courage. They were warm-hearted, but they had very strong nerves.

In fact, Lady Muriel found a certain bellicose relish in having her beloved Roy to set against Humphrey Bevill. It had been bitterly galling to her to hear first that her nephew Humphrey had shown unexpected skill in charge of a small boat — and then, that he was taking risks in the Channel skirmishes with a wild, berserk bravery. He had just been cited for a DSC. It might have pleased Lady Muriel to see credit come to the family name; perhaps it did a little. But much more, it brought back a grief. Lady Muriel had craved for a son, and she was taunted by having daughters. It taunted her again when her sister-in-law, after being childless so long, bore a son. It had seemed just to Lady Muriel that the boy should turn out worthless, dissipated, bohemian, effeminate. Now he was suddenly talked about as the bravest young man in their whole circle. Lady Muriel was not good at disguising her rancour. I had always known that she both envied and despised Lady Boscastle: now I saw that she detested her.

I got back to my flat before eleven, in time for the telephone call; I found Roy there himself. He was sitting in a dressing gown, clean from a bath but heavy-eyed.

“Just going to bed,” he said. “Night duty last night. I’m extremely tired.”

He was still working in his civilian office. He had received my message, and taken the first train to London.

“I hear the news is true,” I said.

“It’s true,” said Roy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was the one thing I couldn’t tell you.” He looked at me with a troubled, piercing gaze, as though I and he each knew the reason. Yet nothing came home to me; I was angry and mystified. Quickly, he went on: “I’ve nothing to keep from you now. You see? I’ve come tonight to tell you something no one else knows. I’m going to get married.”

“Who to?”

“Rosalind, of course.”

Roy was smiling.

“You’re not to speak of it,” he said. “I haven’t asked her yet. I don’t know whether she’ll have me. I hope she will.”

“I think she might.”

“Excellent,” said Roy, taking my sarcasm equably. “You’ve always had a weakness for her yourself, old boy. Remember: I shall be a jealous husband. I need a child.”

He went on: “I couldn’t ask her, of course, until the other thing was settled. It will be nice to have everything settled.”

Then he said that he could not keep his eyes open, and must go to bed. I fetched him a book, in case he wanted to read in the morning: he was asleep before I went out of the room.

I could not think of sleep myself. I turned off the lights, pulled back the curtains, and gazed out of the window for a long time. The night was very still. There was no moon; the river glistened in the starlight; there was neither light nor sound down there, except for a moment when an engine chugged across to the southern bank. All over the sky, the stars were brilliant. “I hate the stars.” I heard that cry again.

So he had no hope left at all. I could see no other meaning. I could understand Joan’s relief. I shared it, and knew it was selfish at the root. If he must be driven so — I had felt more than once that night — then I was selfishly glad he could make this choice: I was glad he could choose a way which those round him could accept and approve. It might have been far otherwise. Somehow he had kept within society. It was a help to Joan and me, who cared for society more than he did.

Yet that was a trivial relief, by the side of his surrender. For he had given up now. For years he had struggled with his nature. Now he was tired of it, and he had given up. Active as he was, still eager with the pulse of life, he had done it in the most active way. He was going into battle, he wanted a wife and child. But he had no hope left.

I looked at the brilliant stars. There was no comfort there.

Roy’s marriage caused more stir than his other choice. The wedding took place in the autumn, three weeks before he sailed across to America for his flying training. I was held in London and could not attend it. One of the features of those years was the geographical constraint under which we had to live; a few years earlier, we had had more leisure than most people in the world; now I could not get out of my office even for the day of Roy’s wedding. In fact, I had only seen him for an hour or two since that night he made the special visit to tell me his news. We were all confined, as it were in prison. Many friends I had not seen since the beginning of the war.

But sitting in London, dining now and then with the Royces, I heard enough furore about the marriage. Lady Muriel was at first incredulous; then, contrary to all expectations, she became unusually indulgent. “I refuse to blame him,” she said. “I’ve seen other men make marriages almost as impossible as this before they went to fight. When a man goes off to fight, he feels a basic need to find a — squaw. I consider this young woman is simply his squaw. As for the future,” she said in a grand, gnomic fashion, “I prefer not to speak.”

Joan suffered afresh from all the different wounds of humiliated and unrequited love. She could feel her confidence and self-respect seeping away; she ached with the hunger of her fibres; she was lost in the depth of her heart. She had been able to adjust herself to loss before, while she could believe that he was weighted down with misery, that neither she nor any woman could reach or console him. But now he had married a stupid, scheming, ordinary woman, as though he were an ordinary domestic man!

Joan was not only hurt to the quick, but bitterly angry. And the anger was good for her. It burned away some of her self-distrust. Anything was better than that she should be frightened off love for good. She might feel that no man would ever truly love her; for her, that would be a mortal wound. But her formidable temper blazed out. I was glad to see it. I was glad to see her defiantly going from party to party on the arm of another man.

From two sources I heard that Ralph Udal had also taken it bitterly. Apparently Rosalind had not considered it necessary to break her engagement to him until she was simultaneously engaged to Roy. Had he suspected nothing? Was he so self-sufficient that he convinced himself all was well? I had not met Lady Boscastle since that final end-of-the-world week in Cambridge, but this was a subject peculiarly suited to her talents. She wrote me several feline, sub-acid letters about the “emotional misadventures of our unfortunate vicar”.