by C. P. Snow
“I was clutching at anything, of course,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It was my last grab.” He smiled. “It left me with nothing, didn’t it? Or with myself.”
The clocks struck from all round us. He said lightly: “I’m keeping you up. I mustn’t. High officials need to become respectable. It’s time you did, you know. Part of your duties.”
34: Surrender and Relief
Shortly after we returned from Basel, Roy’s department was moved out of London, and I did not see him for some months. But I heard of him – just once, but in a whisper that one believes as soon as one hears, one seems to have known it before. I heard of him in a committee meeting: it was Houston Eggar who told me, in a moment’s pause between two items on the agenda.
We used to meet in the Old Treasury, in a room which overlooked Whitehall itself, just to the north of Downing Street. It was a committee at under-secretary level, which was set up to share out various kinds of supplies; there were several different claimants – Greece, when she was still in the war, partisan groups which were just springing up by the end of the summer of 1941, when this meeting took place, and neutrals such as Turkey.
The committee behaved (as I often thought, with frantic irritation or human pleasure, according to the news or my own inner weather) remarkably like a college meeting. Each of the members was representing a ministry, and so was speaking to instructions. Sometimes he was at one with his instructions, and so expressed them with energy and weight; Houston Eggar, for instance, could nearly always feel as the Foreign Office felt. Sometimes a member did not like them; sometimes a strong character was etching out a line for himself, and one saw policy shaped under one’s eyes by a series of small decisions. (In fact, it was rare for policy to be clearly thought out, though some romantics or worshippers of “great men” liked to think so. Usually it built itself from a thousand small arrangements, ideas, compromises, bits of give-and-take. There was not much which was decisively changed by a human will. Just as a plan for a military campaign does not spring fully-grown from some master general; it arises from a sort of Brownian movement of colonels and majors and captains, and the most the general can do is rationalise it afterwards.) Sometimes one of the committee was over-anxious to ingratiate himself or was completely distracted by some private grief.
As in a college meeting, the reasons given were not always close to the true reasons. As in a college meeting, there was a public language – much of which was common to both. That minatory phrase “in his own best interests” floated only too sonorously round Whitehall. The standard of competence and relevance was much higher than in a college meeting, the standard of luxurious untrammelled personality perceptibly lower. Like most visitors from outside, I had formed a marked respect for the administrative class of the civil service. I had lived among various kinds of able men, but I thought that, as a group, these were distinctly the ablest. And they loved their own kind of power.
Houston Eggar loved his own kind of power. He loved to think that a note signed by him affected thousands of people. He loved to speak in the name of the Foreign Office: “my department”, said Houston Eggar with possessive gusto. It was all inseparable as flesh and blood from his passion for getting on, his appetite for success – which, as it happened, still did not look certain to be gratified. It had become a race with the end of the war. He was forty-eight in 1941, and unless the war ended in five or six years he stood no chance of becoming an ambassador. However, he was a man who got much pleasure from small prizes; his CMG had come through in the last honours list, which encouraged him; he plunged into the committee that afternoon, put forward his argument with his usual earnestness and vigour, and thoroughly enjoyed himself.
He was propounding the normal Foreign Office view that, since the amount of material was not large, it was the sensible thing to distribute it in small portions, so that no one should be quite left out; we should thus lay up credit in days to come. The extreme alternative view was to see nothing but the immediate benefit to the war, get a purely military judgment, and throw all this material there without any side-glances. There was a whole spectrum of shades between the two, but on the whole Eggar tended to be isolated in that company and had to work very hard for small returns. It was so that day. But he was surprisingly effective in committee; he was not particularly clever, but he spoke with clarity, enthusiasm, pertinacity and above all weight. Even among sophisticated men, weight counted immeasurably more than subtlety or finesse.
Accordingly he secured a little more than the Foreign Office could reasonably expect. It was a hot afternoon, and he leaned back in his chair, mopping his forehead. He always got hot in the ardour of putting his case. He beamed. He was happy to have won a concession.
I was due to speak on the next business, but the chairman was looking through his papers. I was sitting next to Eggar; he pushed an elbow along the table, and leant towards me. He said in a low voice, casual and confidential: “So Calvert is getting his release.”
“What?”
“He has got his own way. Good luck to him. I told his chief there’s no use trying to keep a man who is determined to go.”
“Where is he going?”
Eggar looked incredulous, as though I must know.
“Where is he going?” I said.
“Oh, he wants to fly, of course. It’s quite natural.”
I had known nothing of it, not a word, not a hint. For a second, I felt physically giddy. A blur of faces went round me. Then it steadied. I heard the chairman’s voice, a little impatient: “Isn’t this a matter for you, Eliot?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Chairman,” I said, and mechanically began to explain a new piece of government machinery. I could hear my own words, faint and toneless like words in a dream – yet they came out in a shape fluent, practised, articulate. It was too hard to break the official habit. One was clamped inside one’s visor.
Eggar left before the end of the meeting, and so I could not get another word with him. I put through a call to Roy’s office, but he was out. I gave a message for him: would he telephone me at my flat, without fail, after eleven that night?
I went straight from my office to have dinner with Lady Muriel and Joan. They had come to London in the first week of the war, and were living in the Boscastles’ town house in Curzon Street. They were extravagantly uncomfortable. The house was not large, judged by the magnificent criterion of Boscastle (Lord Boscastle’s grandfather had sold the original town mansion); but it was a good deal too large for two women, both working at full-time jobs. It was also ramshackle and perilously unsafe. Nothing would persuade Lady Muriel to forsake it. A service flat seemed in her eyes common beyond expression – as for danger, she dismissed us all as a crowd of “jitterbugs” getting the idiom wrong. “This disturbance is much exaggerated,” she said, and slept with a soundness that infuriated many of us and put us to shame.
Her sense of duty would not permit her to employ any servants who could possibly do other work. In fact, they had two women who had been with the family all their lives, both well over seventy and infirm. Lady Muriel did all the cooking herself when she gave a dinner party, but made them both wait at table. It was a quixotic parody of nights in the Lodge and Boscastle.
She and Joan were sitting together in the drawing-room. The pictures had been taken away for safety, and the walls were bare.
“Good evening, Mr – Lewis,” said Lady Muriel. “It is good of you to come and see us.”
Nowadays, she used my Christian name when she remembered. The explanation was a little complicated. It did not mean for a minute that she thought the time had come to relax her social standards. As a matter of fact, the exact opposite was the case. She might officiate at a refugee centre each day and every day – which she did inexorably. She submitted to being slapped on the back by cheery women helpers: it was part of her job. But at night, in the privacy of Curzon Street, where she had lived as a girl, she became so magniloquently snobbish that
her days in the Lodge came to seem like slumming. It was her defence, her retort, to those who kept saying that the day of her kind was gone forever. Lord Boscastle responded in just the same fashion – not with accommodation, not trying to fit in, but with an exaggerated, a considered, a monumental arrogance. They were both dropping most of their old acquaintances.
No, when Lady Muriel called me by my Christian name it certainly did not imply that she accepted me in any social sense. Perhaps she liked me a little more; with her, getting used to people and liking them tended to run together. But really her softening came from quite a different cause: it was a gesture of respect towards the government and those who organised the war. She was passionately determined that her country should win; and it made her curiously respectful to anyone who seemed to be in control. She had decided that I was far more important than in fact I was; she had also decided that I knew every conceivable military secret. Nothing would remove these misconceptions; a flat denial merely strengthened her faith in my astuteness and responsibility. Then someone told her that I was doing well, and that finished it. She listened open-mouthed to every word I said about the war, like a girl student with a venerated teacher; she drew inferences when I was silent; and, with a certain effort, she brought herself after all those years to use my Christian name.
I smiled at Joan. Despite her exertions, thick and heavy as she was, Lady Muriel was well preserved at fifty-five. But Joan no longer looked a girl. She had worked in the Treasury from the first winter, and her face had changed through success as well as unhappiness. She had shown how able she was; it was just the outlet for her tough, strong nature; and it had stamped its mark on her, for on the surface she was a little more formidable, a little more decisive, ruthless and blunt.
Though everyone praised her, though she knew that she could go high if she wanted, she recoiled. She liked it and hated it. In protest, she lived at night the gayest life she could snatch. She went out with every man who asked her. I saw her often in public-houses and smart bars and restaurants. She was searching for a substitute for Roy, I knew – and yet also she longed for the glitter and the lights more than many giggling thoughtless women.
I did not want to tear open her wound, but I was driven to ask at once about Roy. I could not begin to make conversation. I had to ask: did they know anything of him?
To my consternation, Joan smiled.
“You must have heard.” She told me the same news as Eggar.
“I’ve heard nothing.”
“I should have thought he would have told you,” said Joan. “He let me know.”
“It was only to be expected,” said Lady Muriel, “that he should let us know.”
I gathered that he had written to Lady Muriel. Joan was glad that she had heard the secret, and I had not; even now her love would not let her go, searched for the slightest sign, found an instant of dazzling hope in a letter to her mother. His friend had not been told; was this letter a signal to her?
“He seems content,” said Joan. “I hope it’s right for him. I think perhaps it is.”
“It is certainly right for him,” said Lady Muriel.
“He’s such a strange man,” said Joan. “I hope it is.”
“I’ve always known that he’s been uncomfortable since the war began. A woman feels these things,” said Lady Muriel superbly. “I can rely on my intuition.”
“What has it told you, Mother?” said Joan, as though she had picked up a spark of mischief from Roy.
“He could not bear being kept back while others fought. I consider that he would never have been happy until he fought.”
Joan smiled at her. Now that Joan had been battered by her own experience, she was much fonder of her mother, much kinder to her, more able to see the rich nature behind the absurd, forbidding armour. She was more ready to put up with her mother’s lack of perception – when Joan was a girl, before she had loved, it had merely made her aggressive and fierce. As the years passed, they were growing together.
They took the news of Roy quite differently, and yet with one point in common. For Lady Muriel, all was now clear and well. When she gave her trust, she gave it naïvely and absolutely, like a little girl; white was white, and she admired with her whole heart; and there was no one whom she admired more than Roy. She tried to get used to a war in which young men had safe jobs, did not want to leave them; but she could not manage it. She could not reconcile herself to Roy inert and indecisive. Now her trust was justified. She could worship again, in her simple, loyal, unqualified fashion. “I always knew it would happen,” said Lady Muriel, forgetting that she had ever been troubled, forgetting it just as completely as she forgot she had once herself opposed the war.
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.
35: Consequences of a Marriage
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.