The Light and the Dark (49 page)

For days past there had been a hidden bitter dispute in the college about who should officiate at the service. By all tradition, convention, and precedent, Despard-Smith had an unshakable claim. He was the only fellow in orders; he had taken every memorial service for the last thirty years; he assumed that as of right he would preside at this one, as he had done at the old Master’s.

But Arthur Brown did not like it. He had heard that last conflict between the old man and Roy. He knew, and so did most of the fellows, that Despard-Smith had been an enemy of Roy’s, throughout his time there. Brown also knew that Despard-Smith was one of the few people alive who did not come within Roy’s charity.

Brown was the last man in the college to make an unnecessary disturbance; he was willing to put up with a great many nuisances for the sake of a decent and clubbable life; and no one had more respect for precedent. But he could not let this pass. It was not fitting for Despard-Smith to speak in memory of Roy. Brown used all his expertness, all his experience of managing awkward situations, all his ability to get hints dropped and friendly representations made: but nothing came of it. Despard-Smith took it for granted that he would celebrate the service. Brown caused it to be suggested by other fellows that Calvert had intimate friends, such as Udal, in the church. It would give great pleasure if one of those officiated. Despard-Smith said that it would be reprehensible on his part to forsake his duty.

At last Brown fell back on the extreme obstinacy which he always held in reserve. He decided to “have it out” with the old man. For Brown, who disliked any unpleasant scene, it was an ordeal. But I had no doubt that he spoke his mind with absolute firmness. Even then Despard-Smith would not give way. He could not abrogate his moral responsibility, he said. If his taking the service gave too much offence, then there should be no service at all.

All that Brown could secure was a compromise about the actual oration. Despard-Smith was willing to be guided by Calvert’s friends upon what should be said. He would not pledge himself to use any specific form of words. But, if Brown gave him the notes for an address, he would use them so far as he felt justified.

So that morning Despard-Smith took the service. He looked younger than usual, buoyed up like other old men when a young one died – as though full of triumph that he was living on.

He did his office with dignity. At his age he was still spare, bleak, and erect. He viewed the crowded chapel severely: his voice had not lost its resonance. Some of the women cried as he spoke of Roy. Lady Muriel and Joan were dry-eyed, just as they had been at the old Master’s funeral. Just as at that service, Despard-Smith got through his work. Brown frowned; heavy-faced, his high colour darkened, throughout the address.

I was glad when it was over. The old clergyman told us, as he had told us before at other memorial services, that there was no sorrow in death for him who had passed over. “He has gone in great joy to meet his God. There should be no sorrow for the sake of our dear colleague. It is we who loved him who feel the sorrow. It is our lives which are darker, not his. We must try to conquer our deprivation in the thought of his exceeding joy.”

That was common form. So was much of what he said about Roy’s life in college – “very quiet in all his good actions, never seeking power or fame or worldly pleasures, never entertaining an unkind thought, never saying an unkind word”.

He had said almost exactly the same of Vernon Royce: I remembered catching a flash in Roy’s eye as he heard that last astonishing encomium.

Then Despard-Smith put in something new.

“Our dear colleague was young. Perhaps he had not yet come to his full wisdom. If he had a fault, perhaps it was to be impatient of the experience that the years bring to us. Perhaps he had not yet learned all that the years must tell us of the tears of things. Lachrymae rerum. The tears of things. But how fortunate he was, our dear colleague, to pass over in the glory of his youth, before he tasted the tears of things. There is no sorrow in such a death. To have known only the glory and happiness of youth, and then to cast away life for one’s country. ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori’.”

The old man realised he had departed from his brief. He was a man who stuck to his contract; he adjusted his spectacles, fumbled with his notes, and began to read Arthur Brown’s version. It was clear and simple. Despard-Smith read it monotonously, without much meaning or inflection until the end. Brown had put down Roy’s great successes. And he had written: “He could have stayed in safety. But he chose otherwise. The heart knows its own bitterness.” Brown meant it as a comment on Roy’s whole experience, but Despard-Smith read it as mechanically as the rest.

The service ended. The fellows filed out first. Arthur Brown pressed my hand without a word. I wanted to escape before the others came into the court. I went across quickly to my rooms in the bright sunlight. The cold wind was getting up.

I had a few last things to do. Our belongings in college had been mixed up together. I happened to have a safe in my room, and there he had stored some of his manuscripts. I unlocked it, took out one or two of his papers, read through them, considered how they should be disposed of. Then I went down to the college cellar, under the kitchen. For years we had shared a section of the cellar together; we did not buy much wine, but there were a few dozen bottles of mine on the top racks, a rather less number of his below. His racks were labelled in his own hand.

Inexplicably, that sight wounded me more than anything at the service. I had been prepared for much: but to this I had no defence. I could not bear to stay there. Without any plan or intention, I went up into the court, began walking through the streets.

It was dark in the sunshine, and difficult to see.

The may on the trees was odorous on the cold wind. I felt beside me, closer than anything I saw and yet not close enough to take away the acute and yearning sadness, the face of a young man, mischievous and mocking, the sleeves of his sweater tied round his neck, as when we walked away from cricket in the evening light.

Series in broad chronological ‘story’ order (see Synopses below for ‘Series order’)

Dates given refer to first publication dates

These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as stand-alone novels

Published by House of Stratus

George Passant In the first of the Strangers and Brothers series Lewis Eliot tells the story of George Passant, a Midland solicitor’s managing clerk and idealist who tries to bring freedom to a group of people in the years 1925 to 1933.

The Light & The Dark The Light and the Dark is the second in the Strangers and Brothers series. The story is set in Cambridge, but the plot also moves to Monte Carlo, Berlin and Switzerland. Lewis Eliot narrates the career of a childhood friend. Roy Calvert is a brilliant but controversial linguist who is about to be elected to a fellowship.

Time of Hope The third in the Strangers and Brothers series (although the first in chronological order) and tells the story of Lewis Eliot’s early life. As a child he is faced with his father’s bankruptcy. As a young man, he finds his career at the Bar hindered by a neurotic wife. Separation from her is impossible however.

The Masters The fourth in the Strangers and Brothers series begins with the dying Master of a Cambridge college. His imminent demise causes intense rivalry and jealousy amongst the other fellows. Former friends become enemies as the election looms.