I evaded and lied. I had never seen Roy lose control until this afternoon, I said. It was a shock to me, as it was to Winslow. Of course, Roy was sensitive, highly-strung, easily affected by the sorrows of his friends. He was profoundly upset over the Master, and it was wearing his nerves to see so much suffering. I tried to keep as near the truth as I safely could. In addition, I said, taking a risk, Roy was very fond of Winslow’s son.
Winslow was recalled to his own wretchedness. He looked away from me, absently, and it was some time before he asked, in a flat tone: “I’m very ignorant of these matters. Should you say that Calvert was seriously unstable?”
I did not tell Winslow any of the truth. He was a very clever man, but devoid of insight; and I gave him the sort of explanation which most people find more palatable than the strokes of fate. I said that Roy was physically not at his best. His blood pressure was low, which helped to make him despondent. I explained how he had been overworking for years, how his long solitary researches had affected his health and depressed his spirits.
“He’s a considerable scholar, from all they say,” said Winslow indifferently. “I had my doubts about him once, but I’ve found him an engaging young man.”
“There’s nothing whatever to worry about.”
“You know him well,” said Winslow. “I expect you’re right. I think you should persuade him to take a good long holiday.”
Winslow looked down at the sheet of paper. It was some time before he spoke. Then he said: “So there is something in the stories that have been going round?”
“I don’t know what he has written there,” I said. “I’ve no doubt that the stories are more highly painted than the facts. Remember they’ve been told you by people who envy him.”
“Maybe,” said Winslow. “Maybe. If those people have this communication,” he tapped the paper, “I don’t see how Master Calvert is going to continue in this college. The place will be too hot to hold him.”
“Do you want to see that happen?” I was keyed up to throw my resolve against his. Winslow was thinking of his enemies in the college, how a scandal about Roy would confute them, how he could use it in the present struggle. He stared at me, and told me so without any adornment.
“You can’t do it,” I said, with all the power I could call on.
“Why not?”
“You can’t do it. You know some of the reasons that brought Calvert to the state he was in this afternoon. They’re enough to stop you absolutely, by themselves.”
“If you’d bring it to a point—”
“I’ll bring it to a point. We both know that Calvert lost control of himself. He got into a state pretty near despair. And he wouldn’t have got into that state unless he’d seen that you were unhappy and others were pleased at your expense. Who else had any feeling for you?”
“It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other,” said Winslow.
Then I asked: “Who else had any feeling for your son Dick? You know that Calvert was upset about him. Who else had any feeling for your son?”
Winslow looked lost, bewildered, utterly without arrogance or strength. He looked sadly away from me. He did not speak for some moments. At last, in a tired, dejected, completely uninterested tone, he said, the words coming out slowly: “What shall I do with this?” He pointed to the sheet of paper.
“I don’t mind,” I said, knowing that it was safe.
“Perhaps you’d better have it.”
Winslow pushed it towards me, but did not give another glance as I walked to the fireplace, and put a match to it over the empty grate.
19: The Cost of Knowledge
I went up to Roy’s room. He was lying on his sofa, stretched out and relaxed. He jumped up and greeted me with a smile contrite and remorseful.
“Have I dished everything?” he said.
He was quite equable now, affectionate, and happy because the shadow had passed over.
“Have I dished everything?” he said.
“I think I’ve settled it,” I said, in tiredness and strain. I could let myself go at last. I felt overwhelmed by responsibility, I knew that I was ageing before my time. “But you’ll do something one day that I can’t settle.”
“I’m frightened of that too,” said Roy.
“I shan’t always be there to pick up the pieces,” I said.
“You look pretty worn. I need to order you some strawberries for tea,” he said with tender, mocking concern. He went into his bedroom to telephone, and talked to the kitchens in the voice of the senior fellow, ludicrously like the life. I could not help but smile, despite fatigue and worry and unreasonable anger. He came back and stood looking down at me.
“It’s very hard on you, dear old boy,” he said, suddenly but very quietly. “Having me to look after as well as poor Sheila. There’s nothing I can say, is there? You know as much about it as I do. Or at least, if you don’t now, you never will, you know.”
“Never mind,” I said.
“Of course,” said Roy, with a joyous smile, “just at this minute I feel that I shall never be depressed again.”
In the next few days he spent much of his time with me. He was inventive and entertaining, as though to show me that I need not worry. He was quite composed and even-spirited, but not as carefree as after the first outburst. The innocence, the rapture, the hope, did not flood him and uplift him. He put on his fireworks for my benefit, but underneath he was working something out. What it was I could not guess. I caught him looking at me several times with a strange expression — protective, concerned, uneasy. There was something left unsaid.
On a night early in July, he invited me out to dinner in the town. It was strange for us to dine together in a restaurant in Cambridge: we had not done so since he became a fellow. It was stranger still for Roy to be forcing the conversation, to be unspontaneous, anxious to make a confidence and yet held back. He was specially anxious to look after me; he had brought a bottle of my favourite wine, and had chosen the dinner in advance out of dishes that I liked. He told me some gleeful anecdotes of people round us. But we came to the end of the meal and left the restaurant: he had still not managed to speak.
It was a fine and glowing evening, and I suggested that we should walk through one of the colleges down to the river. Roy shook his head.
“We’re bound to meet someone if we do,” he said. “They’ll catch us. Some devils will catch us.” He was smiling, mocking himself. “I don’t want to be caught. I need to say something to you. It’s not easy.”
So we walked to Garret Hostel Bridge. There was no one standing there, though some young men and girls on bicycles came riding over. Roy looked down into the water. It was burnished in the bright evening light, and the willows and bridges seemed to be painted beneath the surface, leaf by leaf and line by line: it was the time, just as the sun was dying, when all colours gained a moment of enhancement, and the reflections of the trees were brilliant.
“Well?” I said.
“I suppose I need to talk,” said Roy.
In a moment he said: “I know what you think. About my nature. About the way I’m made.”
“Then you know more than I do,” I said, trying to distract him, but he turned on me in a flash with a sad, teasing, acute smile.
“That’s what you say when you want someone to think you’re nice and kind and a bit of an old buffer. I’ve heard you do it too often. It’s quite untrue. You mustn’t do it now.”
He looked into the water again.
“I know enough to be going on with,” he said. “I know you reasonably well, old boy. I have seen what you believe about me.”
I did not answer. It was no use pretending.