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Authors: C. P. Snow
Tags: The Masters
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leaden, the snow still lay on the court, with a few pockmarks at the edges; the fire deep in the room behind me was reflected in the heavy twilight. Roy Calvert joined me there.
It had been worse than he imagined, and he was subdued. The Master had been talking happily of how they would collaborate – the ‘little book on the heresies’. This was a project of the Master’s which Roy had been trying to avoid for years. Now he said that he would do it as a memorial.
When Lady Muriel came in, she began with her inflexible greetings, as though nothing were wrong in the house. But Roy took her hand, and his first words were: ‘I’ve been talking to the Master, you know. It’s dreadful to have to pretend, isn’t it? I wish you could have been spared that decision, Lady Mu. No one could have known what to do.’
She was taken aback, and yet relieved so that the tears came. No one else would have spoken to her as though she were a woman who wanted someone to guide her. I wished that I had been as straightforward.
She was already crying, she said that it was not easy.
‘No one could help you,’ said Roy. ‘And you’d have liked help, wouldn’t you? Everyone would.’
He took care of her until Joan joined us, and then they began to argue about the regime in Germany. ‘Just so,’ said Roy, to each of Joan’s positive statements. Both women knew that he had no liking for disputation; both laughed at the precise affirmative, which had once been affected but now was second nature.
Joan’s tenderness for Roy was already near to open love, and her mother indulged him like a son. She must have known something of his reputation, the ‘vine leaves in his hair’ (as the Master once quoted), the women who pursued him. But she never said to Joan, as she had said about any other man whom her daughter brought to the Lodge, ‘My dear Joan, I can’t imagine what you can possibly see in him.’
I talked about Joan as we walked out of the Lodge into the dark, rainy night.
‘That girl,’ I said, ‘is falling more in love with you.’
He frowned. Like many of those who attract passionate love, there were times when he wanted to forget it altogether. And that night, despite his sadness over the Master, he felt innocent and free of the shadows.
‘Come and help me do some shopping,’ he said. ‘I need to buy some presents at once.’
We walked along Sidney Street in the steady rain. Water was swirling, chuckling, gurgling in the gutters; except by the walls, the pavements were clear of snow by now, and they mirrored the lights from the lamps and shopfronts on both sides of the narrow street.
‘We shall get much wetter.’ He smiled. ‘You always looked remarkable in the rain. I need to get these presents off tonight.’
We went from shop to shop, up Sidney Street, down John’s Street, Trinity Street, into the market place. He wanted the presents for his disreputable, unlucky Berlin acquaintances who lived above his flat in the Knesebeckstrasse, and he took great care about choosing them.
‘That might do for the little dancer.’ I had heard of ‘the little dancer’, by the same title before. ‘She weighs 35 kilos,’ Roy commented. ‘Light. Considerably lighter than Arthur Brown.’
In one shop, he suddenly asked, quietly, with complete intimacy, about Sheila, my wife. He knew the whole story of my marriage, and what I had to expect when I went each Tuesday to the Chelsea house. I was glad to talk. In the street, he looked at me with a smile full of affectionate sharp-edged pity. ‘Yet you go on among those comfortable blokes – as though nothing was the matter,’ he said. ‘I wish I could bear as much.’
Without speaking, we walked past Great St Mary’s into the market place. He could say no more, and, with the same intimacy, asked: ‘About those comfortable blokes, old boy. Who are we going to have for Master?’
We were loaded with parcels, our coats were heavy with the damp, rain dripped from our
It had been worse than he imagined, and he was subdued. The Master had been talking happily of how they would collaborate – the ‘little book on the heresies’. This was a project of the Master’s which Roy had been trying to avoid for years. Now he said that he would do it as a memorial.
When Lady Muriel came in, she began with her inflexible greetings, as though nothing were wrong in the house. But Roy took her hand, and his first words were: ‘I’ve been talking to the Master, you know. It’s dreadful to have to pretend, isn’t it? I wish you could have been spared that decision, Lady Mu. No one could have known what to do.’
She was taken aback, and yet relieved so that the tears came. No one else would have spoken to her as though she were a woman who wanted someone to guide her. I wished that I had been as straightforward.
She was already crying, she said that it was not easy.
‘No one could help you,’ said Roy. ‘And you’d have liked help, wouldn’t you? Everyone would.’
He took care of her until Joan joined us, and then they began to argue about the regime in Germany. ‘Just so,’ said Roy, to each of Joan’s positive statements. Both women knew that he had no liking for disputation; both laughed at the precise affirmative, which had once been affected but now was second nature.
Joan’s tenderness for Roy was already near to open love, and her mother indulged him like a son. She must have known something of his reputation, the ‘vine leaves in his hair’ (as the Master once quoted), the women who pursued him. But she never said to Joan, as she had said about any other man whom her daughter brought to the Lodge, ‘My dear Joan, I can’t imagine what you can possibly see in him.’
I talked about Joan as we walked out of the Lodge into the dark, rainy night.
‘That girl,’ I said, ‘is falling more in love with you.’
He frowned. Like many of those who attract passionate love, there were times when he wanted to forget it altogether. And that night, despite his sadness over the Master, he felt innocent and free of the shadows.
‘Come and help me do some shopping,’ he said. ‘I need to buy some presents at once.’
We walked along Sidney Street in the steady rain. Water was swirling, chuckling, gurgling in the gutters; except by the walls, the pavements were clear of snow by now, and they mirrored the lights from the lamps and shopfronts on both sides of the narrow street.
‘We shall get much wetter.’ He smiled. ‘You always looked remarkable in the rain. I need to get these presents off tonight.’
We went from shop to shop, up Sidney Street, down John’s Street, Trinity Street, into the market place. He wanted the presents for his disreputable, unlucky Berlin acquaintances who lived above his flat in the Knesebeckstrasse, and he took great care about choosing them.
‘That might do for the little dancer.’ I had heard of ‘the little dancer’, by the same title before. ‘She weighs 35 kilos,’ Roy commented. ‘Light. Considerably lighter than Arthur Brown.’
In one shop, he suddenly asked, quietly, with complete intimacy, about Sheila, my wife. He knew the whole story of my marriage, and what I had to expect when I went each Tuesday to the Chelsea house. I was glad to talk. In the street, he looked at me with a smile full of affectionate sharp-edged pity. ‘Yet you go on among those comfortable blokes – as though nothing was the matter,’ he said. ‘I wish I could bear as much.’
Without speaking, we walked past Great St Mary’s into the market place. He could say no more, and, with the same intimacy, asked: ‘About those comfortable blokes, old boy. Who are we going to have for Master?’
We were loaded with parcels, our coats were heavy with the damp, rain dripped from our
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