The Sleep of Reason

by C. P. Snow

  I was thinking also, how old should I guess Pat to be, if I didn’t know? Certainly older than he was, older than Vicky: but he had, apart from his mouth, the kind of lined, small-featured face which stays for years in the indeterminate mid-twenties. He was taking two drinks to our one, but there again his physical temperament was odd. He showed the effect of alcohol when he had finished his first glass – and then drank hard, and didn’t show much more effect, for hours to come. He seemed to live, when quite sober, two drinks over par: with alcohol, he climbed rapidly to four over par, and stayed there.

  They were talking about doctoring.

  “I’ve always thought I should have enjoyed it,” Margaret was saying to Vicky. “I often envy you.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Vicky.

  “Oh, you must.”

  “No,” Vicky persisted with her stubborn honesty. “I don’t think I had a vocation. It’s a job–”

  “It’s a job where you’re doing some good, though.”

  “You don’t feel that so much if you’re dealing with outpatients nine to five,” said Vicky. “I might have enjoyed being a children’s doctor. Because they’re going to get better, most of them.”

  “Maurice’s father was just that. Is just that. Did you know?” I put in. It was easier for me to say it than for Margaret.

  “Yes, I should have liked it too,” Margaret said.

  “But you don’t need to be too disappointed if Maurice doesn’t, isn’t that right?” Pat turned to her again. “You’re sure you haven’t been guiding him, without meaning too?”

  He told her that might be why Maurice couldn’t – really couldn’t, for all his sweetness and good will – force himself to work. Did Margaret believe it? Perhaps she would have liked to. And, though Pat was continuing to efface himself, he would have liked to believe it too. For in secret, and sometimes not so much in secret, he put the blame for his own academic disasters down to his father’s fault. If Martin hadn’t wanted him to be a scholarly success–

  As we sat at the dinner table, Pat continued to talk comfortingly to Margaret. I didn’t interrupt. As Margaret knew, or would remember when the euphoria had dropped, I couldn’t accept those consoling explanations: but I didn’t propose to break the peace of the evening. As for Vicky, it was the peace of the evening that she was basking in. Pat was doing well. He was being listened to. They didn’t go to many dinner parties with middle-aged couples. It was all unexacting and safe. It was like a foretaste of marriage.

  Happily, Vicky put in another word about child-doctoring. It had improved, out of comparison, since before the war. Children’s health was better in all classes. It was lucky to have been born in the 1950s. Then she mentioned that people a mile or so from my father’s house would next week be escorting their children back and forth from school. A boy of eight had disappeared a day or two before, there was a wave of anxiety going round. “I hope they find him,” said Vicky.

  Margaret remarked that once, when Maurice was a child, she had been beside herself when he was an hour late. Then Pat broke in and told her another story of Maurice at Cambridge.

  While Pat and Margaret talked to each other, Vicky was able to pass some information on to me. Her glance sometimes left me and flicked across the table: she wanted a smile, she gave a smile back: but that didn’t prevent her telling me the news. It was worrying news, and she had to tell me before the evening was over. But she didn’t sound worried, her words were responsible while her face was not. Anyway, she had gathered (not, so far as I could learn, from Leonard Getliffe) that there might shortly be another resolution before the Court. The three academics, Leonard and two others, who had kept away from the vote of confidence, were growing more dissatisfied. At the least, they wanted some definition of the Vice-Chancellor’s powers. No, they were being careful, they were hoping to find a technique that didn’t hurt him – but they meant business.

  Did Arnold know? I asked. He was quite oblivious, Vicky said. She tried to warn him, but he behaved as though he didn’t want to know.

  Would I make sure to come to the next Court? That was on the day of the congregation in October? Yes, I said, I intended to come.

  “You might be able to make him understand,” she said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You may have to tell him the truth.”

  I swore.

  “But you will come? You promise me?”

  “Of course I’ll come.”

  She was content. After that, we returned to the drawing-room, and were chatting like a family circle when, towards ten o’clock, Maurice came in. He kissed his mother, kissed Vicky, then sank down into an armchair with a tired easygoing sigh. When Margaret asked him, he said that he had been sitting with a schizophrenic patient all afternoon. It took a bit of effort, he said: until this holiday he hadn’t known what schizophrenia could mean. He was wearing a shabby suit, his face – unlined in spite of his fatigue – pallid by the side of Pat’s doggy vigour. Margaret had a plate of sandwiches ready for him, and he began to scoff them. He glanced at Pat, who was by this time at least his customary four drinks over par. “I’m a long way behind, aren’t I?” said Maurice, with his objective smile. Margaret gave him a stiff whisky, which he put down at speed.

  “Better,” he said. It surprised some people, but he wasn’t at all ascetic about alcohol. Whether he was ascetic about sex, I couldn’t (it was strange to be so baffled with someone one had watched since infancy) have sworn.

  Before long, he and Pat and Vicky were talking together. Any one of them was easy with Margaret or me, didn’t feel, or let us feel, the gap of a generation: but together they were drawn by a gravitational pull. Curiously, their voices got softer, even Pat’s, which could be strident when he was confronting his elders. Was it fancy, or did they and their friends whisper to each other more than we used to do?

  Yes, Maurice said to them, he would be going back to Cambridge in a fortnight to “have another bash”. A singular phrase, I thought, for that gentle young man, not one which the professionals in the family would find encouraging. Vicky was giving him some advice about medical examinations. Maurice listened acceptantly and patiently. Soon he switched off: what were they going to do? Well, Vicky said, her holiday would be over in a few days, she’d be returning to the hospital. Pat said that he’d be staying in London: he’d got some sort of job (it sounded as though he had collected a little money too), he’d be able to paint at nights and weekends.

  “You’ll be separated again, won’t you?” said Maurice.

  “It can’t be helped,” said Vicky.

  “How do you manage?”

  “Oh, we have to manage,” she said.

  “I suppose,” said Maurice, “you get on the phone and tell each other when you’re free.”

  He meant – so I thought – that it was Pat who told her when he was free.

  “It’s nice when we do see each other,” said Pat, just as evenly as Maurice was speaking.

  “I should have thought,” said Maurice, “that it was an awful strain.”

  “We’re getting used to it,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  “Are you worried about me, Maurice?” Vicky asked.

  “Yes, I am.” He answered with absolute naturalness.

  “Oh, look, I’m pretty tough.”

  “I don’t think you ought to rely on that for ever. Either of you.”

  He spoke to Pat. “What do you think?”

  Pat replied, with no edge in his voice: “Perhaps you’re right.”

  At dinner there hadn’t been a word about their plans, partly because Pat was repressing all his own concerns, partly because neither Margaret nor I felt we could intrude. But Maurice hadn’t been so delicate, and no one was upset. It might be a happy love affair, but he had picked up (as, in fact, we had also, in the midst of happiness and peace) that there was something inconclusive in the air. As for their plans, they seemed that night to have none at all. So Maurice, less involve
d in this world than any of us, told them that it was time they got married.

  To me, as I listened to the quiet voices, the odd thing was how they took it. Pat: with no sign of resentment, as though it were a perfectly reasonable conversation about how they were going to get back to Islington when they left the flat. Well, Pat wasn’t touchy. But Vicky? She too wasn’t resentful, or even apprehensive. She seemed to take it as a token of kindness, but not really relevant to her and Pat. She might have been nervous about this intervention, if she hadn’t been so certain that, just because she and Pat were themselves, in due course he would marry her. She had, I thought, a kind of obstinacy which no one outside could budge – obstinacy or else a faith (it was here, and nowhere else, that she showed something like conceit) in her own judgment.

  Anyway, the three of them remained on the best of terms, and Maurice and Pat had another drink or two before the end of the evening.

  When Maurice had gone back to Cambridge and Margaret and I were alone, she reminded me more than once of that initiative of his. She was proud of how uninhibited he was, particularly when she was worrying about him again. And also she thought he had been right. She was a little ashamed of herself, of course, for having been softened by Pat’s blarney. She was, like Maurice, altogether on Vicky’s side. It would be bad for her if the affair dragged on like this.

  So we talked, on pleasant October evenings. There wasn’t much on our minds. I was working hard, but not obsessively. On a Friday night Charles rang up, according to habit, from school. All well. I told him that, the following Wednesday, I had to go to the University Court and Congregation. “Multiplying mummery,” came the deep mocking voice over the wire. Politics too, I said. That’s more like it, said Charles.

  The next morning I woke up, drowsy with well-being, looking forward as I came to consciousness to a leisurely weekend alone with Margaret. I was lying on my right, and through a gap in the curtains the misty morning light came in over the Tyburn gardens. As I looked at the gap, I noticed – no, I didn’t notice, it hit me like a jolt in a jet plane 30,000 feet up, the passage up to that instant purring with calm – a veil over the corner of my left eye. A black veil, sharp-edged. I blinked. The veil disappeared: I felt a flood of reassurance. I looked again. The veil was there, covering perhaps a quarter of the eye, not more.

  Margaret was sleeping like a child. I got out of bed and went to the window, pulling a little of one curtain back. Outside was a tranquil autumn haze. It was the kind of morning in which, years before, it had been good to be back in England after a holiday abroad. On my left side, the black edge cut out the haze. I blinked. I went on testing one eye, then the other. It was like pressing on a tooth to make sure it is still aching. The veil remained. Now that I was looking out into the full light, there was a penumbra, orange-brown, along its edge, through which I had some sort of swirling half-vision, as through blurred smoked glass. The veil itself was impenetrable. No pain.

  I tiptoed out to the bathroom, and looked at myself in the glass. A familiar eye looked back. There wasn’t a mark on it, the iris was bright, the white wasn’t bloodshot. The lines in my face had deepened, that was all.

  I went back to bed, trying to steady myself. I was more frightened, or not so much frightened as nervously exposed, than I liked being. Later on, people made excuses for me, told me it wasn’t so unnatural: the eye is close to the central nervous system, and so, they said cheeringly, eye afflictions often have their psychological effects. But I wasn’t thinking of explanations or excuses then. All I wanted was to talk sensibly to Margaret.

  She was still sleeping. As a rule, she slept heavily in the early morning, and woke confused. Again I left the bed, found our housekeeper already stirring, and asked for breakfast as soon as she could bring it. Then I sat looking down at my wife. I said, “I’m sorry, but I should like you to wake up now.”

  11: Objectivity?

  AS I put my hand on her shoulder, she struggled through a dream, through layers of sleep. She managed to say, is anything the matter? I replied that a cup of tea would be arriving soon. She asked the time, and when I told her, said that it was too early. I said that I was just a little worried. What about, she said, still not awake, then suddenly she caught my tone of voice. What about? she said, only to act, slipping out of bed into her dressing gown, watching me, her face wide open.

  While she had a cup of tea, smoked her first cigarette, I described my symptoms. Or rather my symptom, for there was only the one. “What can it be?” said Margaret. I was asking her the same thing. For a moment we looked at each other, each suspecting that the other had some guess or secret knowledge. Then we knew that we were equally lost.

  She didn’t think of saying that it might pass. We were too much at one for that. Over breakfast she was wondering what advice we could get. Clearly we needed an eye specialist. What about the man whose son was at Charles’ school? No sooner had she thought of the name than she was riffling through the telephone directory. Mansel. Harley Street. No answer there. Home address. She got through, and, listening, I gathered that Mr Mansel was away. At an eye surgeons’ conference in Stockholm. He would be back very late tomorrow, Sunday, night.

  “That’s probably time enough,” I said.

  She said: “I want to know what you’ve got.”

  I argued, with the perverse obstinacy of shock, that he was said to be first rate and that at casual meetings we had both liked him. We could ring him up on Monday morning: that would, I said again, be time enough.

  “I want to know,” she said. Couldn’t we find a doctor who might have an idea? The curious thing was, we couldn’t really be said to have a doctor. Since my breakdown as a young man, I had been, apart from bouts of lumbago, abnormally healthy: so had she been, and she hadn’t yet entered the change of life. So far as we had a doctor, it was my old friend Charles March, but he hadn’t visited us professionally for something like ten years.

  Still, she would talk to him, she said. Once more I listened to her on the telephone. Dr March was on holiday, was he? Back in a fortnight? He had a locum, of course? Could she have his telephone number?

  “No, leave it now,” I said.

  She did not mention the name of her first husband. He was an excellent doctor, she had complete faith in him – but no, she couldn’t, she couldn’t disturb, not the peace of the moment, but the insulation of the moment in which we sat together.

  But there were other doctors. Later it seemed to us inexplicable – or out of character for either of us, especially her, so active and protective – that we spoke to none of them through that long weekend. She was used to a kind of pointless stoicism which sometimes, in bad trouble, came over me. As a rule, if we expected harsh news, she wanted to find out the worst and get it over: my instinct was to wait, it would come soon enough, other miseries had passed and so might this. That weekend, though, she behaved as I did myself. I was worried enough but, perhaps because I had a physical malaise to preoccupy me, she was worse. For once, she did not want to brave it out and discover our fate.

  During the morning, I went into the study and found her there. In a hurry, she put her hand over what she was reading. It was a medical dictionary. I had come for exactly the same purpose. I gave her a smile. It was the sort of grim joke old Gay’s saga men would have enjoyed. She smiled back, but she was having to control her face.

  Before lunch we went for a walk in the park. It was a day of absolute calm, the sun warm enough to tinge the skin, the mist still lying in the hollows. The grass smelt as welcoming as on a morning in childhood. Margaret, clutching my arm, was watching me shut and open my left eye.

  “How is it?”

  “No better,” I said. In fact, it was worse. The veil had spread and now covered between a third and a half of the eye. The orange penumbra flickered dizzily as I tried to gaze into the benign autumn sky. When I closed the eye, I could walk as comfortably as on the afternoon before, the time that Margaret and I had taken a stroll in the same beautiful wea
ther.

  It was a long weekend. I couldn’t write or even read: as for looking at television, that became an exercise in calculating whether the veil was creeping further. We talked a good deal, but only about what had happened to us, us together, us alone. Those we were interested in, or responsible for, we didn’t talk about at all. The exchanges of habit, as soothing as a domestic animal one loved, those we had thrown away: not a word about Charles’ next Sunday at home. Some time before the Sunday morning Margaret had made her own diagnosis. I didn’t ask to know it. And yet at moments, as in all strain, time played tricks. We were back on Friday evening, having our drinks after Charles’ telephone call. This hadn’t happened. And then Margaret was watching me as I opened my eye.

  On Monday morning, after a drugged and broken night, I woke early. I found Margaret looking at me. With a start I stared at the window. The veil was black: no larger, but like a presence on the nerves. I turned towards her, and said: “Well, we shall soon know.”

  “Yes, we shall,” she said, steady by now.

  When could I decently ring this man up? She was even prepared to smile at the “decently”: now the time had come, we had something to do.

  Over breakfast we decided on nine o’clock. But when I tried his office, I heard that he had been in hospital since six. “Mr Mansel gets on without much sleep,” said his secretary, with proprietorial pride. I could get him there: which, fretted by the delays, in time I did.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t arrive home till late last night. They gave me your message.” The voice was brisk, light, professional. “What’s gone wrong with your eye?”

  I told him. “That’s a very clear description,” the voice said with approval, rather as though I were a medical student walking the wards and making a report. I had better see him that morning. He was doing an operation at 9.30. He would be at Harley Street by 11.30. Too early for me?