Free The Malcontents by C. P. Snow Page B

Mark, himself borne up, was observing with concern – hadn’t settled his friend. Stephen’s voice had been firm, but the resonance had gone. Once more he was staring down at the formica, and the skim of milk on the cold coffee.
    Even Mark, who was no sort of coward, had to screw himself up to intrude. ‘It needn’t be so bad,’ he said, half as though it were a question. Under the bleak light, the two heads, fair and dark, the two faces, one unlined and one indrawn, faced each other across the table.
    ‘If you mean what we’re in for ourselves,’ said Stephen, ‘that’s the least of it.’
    He said it as if brooding to himself, with something like tired contempt. He might have been deceiving himself, or softening the truth. It was often the simplest and most selfish thoughts which weighed the most. Professionally, Stephen could have thought, he would live this one down. A decent scientist wasn’t going to be put out of action for ever. But he had never lived with a scandal. He didn’t know what it would be like. Perhaps he was more frightened than he recognized.
    Still, there was something else. Mark was searching for it.
    ‘You’re not worrying about Lance, are you? Or whoever else it is. He doesn’t matter. He’s not worth worrying about. One person’s not worth worrying about.’
    It was not what Mark expected, but all of a sudden, as though a key had been turned, Stephen began fervently to talk.
    ‘Are any of us worth worrying about? Is he any different from the rest of us? I mean, from the rest of blasted human beings. You know, there are times when it looks as though everything is a nonsense. Quite likely, humanity is a nonsense. Do you see any answer to that? Men are just clever animals. Not all that clever, but the cleverest that have appeared so far. Just clever animals, with no good in them.’
    Stephen was speaking to someone whom – though he had never said so – he thought good.
    ‘Is this man any worse than the rest of us?’ Stephen’s eyes, dark and penetrating, didn’t leave the other’s. ‘We’re cruel like animals. We’re worse than they are, because we get enjoyment out of it.’
    For an instant, Mark’s expression lost its innocence, and he interrupted: ‘I think there’s something worse than that, those who are cruel without feeling anything at all.’
    Stephen rushed on: ‘My father talked to me this evening. As you know. I tell you, I was cruel to him. Quite needlessly. There was no good in either of us. He was as bad as I was. That doesn’t make it better, don’t you see?’
    Stephen added more slowly: ‘He doesn’t believe in anything. He goes to his cathedral, and he doesn’t believe a word of it. Or perhaps he cheats himself with words. If they didn’t cheat themselves, could anyone believe? Any faith you like. Most of the questions men have asked since they learned to talk haven’t any meaning. If we haven’t learned anything else this century, we’ve learned that. What does man live by? We’d all like the answer to that. But I ask you, does it mean anything at all?’
    Mark’s face, which during some of Stephen’s outburst had been shadowed with pain, regained its radiance. He said: ‘When you talk of your father not believing, aren’t you talking of yourself?’
    ‘Maybe.’ Stephen replied with indifference, as though he were for the moment spent.
    ‘But you do believe in something, you know. I can tell you what you live by, if you want.’
    Stephen did not utter.
    ‘Why have you been doing what you have?’ Mark said. ‘You needn’t have. You could just have sat pretty and let everything go by. Very few people have had all the luck you’ve had. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You weren’t ready just to enjoy your luck. So you’ve got into danger and you’ll pay the price.’
    Mark gave a fresh smile: ‘Well, would one of your clever animals have done that? I don’t care what you’ve done it for. Or where the motive comes from.