by C. P. Snow
They were both genuinely humble men. They were profoundly different, at the roots of their natures, but neither thought that he was anything out of the ordinary. They knew that others round them were creative, as they were not; Chrystal had once been a competent classic, was still a first-rate teacher, but had done nothing original – Brown wrote an intricate account of the diplomatic origins of the Crimean war soon after he graduated, and then stopped. They did not even think that they were unusual as men. Either would say that the Master or Jago or one or two others were the striking figures in the college. All they might add was that those striking figures did not always have the soundest judgement, were not the most useful at ‘running things’.
For, though they were the least conceited of men, they had complete confidence in their capacity to ‘run things’. Between them, they knew all the craft of government. They knew how men in a college behaved, and the different places in which each man was weak, ignorant, indifferent, obstinate, or strong. They never overplayed their hand; they knew just how to take the opinion of the college after they had settled a question in private. They knew how to give way. By this time, little of importance happened in the college which they did not support.
They asked very little more for themselves. They were neither of them ambitious; they thought they had done pretty well. They were comfortable and happy. They accepted the world round them, they believed it was good the college should exist, they had no doubt they were being useful in the parts they played. As they piloted their candidate through a fellowship election, or worked to secure this benefaction from Sir Horace, they gained the thrill that men feel at a purpose outside themselves.
They were both ‘sound’ conservatives in politics, and in religion conforming and unenthusiastic churchmen. But in the college they formed the active, if sometimes invisible, part of a progressive government. (College politics often cut right across national ones: thus Winslow, an upper-class radical, became in the college extremely reactionary, and Francis Getliffe and I, both men of the left, found ourselves in the college supporting the ‘government’ – the Master, Jago, Chrystal, Brown – with whom we disagreed on most things outside.) To that they devoted their attention, their will, their cunning, and their experience. They had been practising it for twenty years, and by now they knew what could be done inside the college to an inch.
I had never seen a pair of men more fitted for their chosen job. They were loyal to each other in public and in private. If they brought off a success for the college, they each had a habit of attributing it to the other. Actually most men thought that, of the two, Chrystal was the dominating spirit. He had a streak of fierceness, and the manifest virility which attracts respect – and at the same time resentment – from other men. He also possessed the knack of losing his temper at the right moment, which made him more effective in committee. He was urgent and impatient and quick to take offence. He gave an immediate impression of will, and many of the college used to say: ‘Oh, Chrystal will bring Brown along with him.’
I did not believe it. Each was shrewd, but Brown had the deeper insight. I had seen enough of both to be sure that, in doubt or trouble, it was Chrystal who relied on the stubborn fortitude of his friend.
‘How much is it likely to be?’ I asked. They glanced at each other. They thought I knew something about men, but was altogether too unceremonious in the way I talked of money.
‘Sir Horace hinted,’ said Chrystal, with a suspicion of hush in his voice, ‘at £100,000. I take it he could sign a cheque for that himself and not miss it.’
‘He must be a very hot man,’ said Brown, who was inclined to discuss wealth in terms of temperature.
‘I wonder if he is?’ I said. ‘He must be quite well off, of course. But he’s an industrial executive, you know, not a financier. Isn’t it the financiers who make the really big fortunes? People like Sir H don’t juggle with money and don’t collect so much.’
‘You put him lower than I do,’ said Chrystal, somewhat damped. ‘You’re underrating him, Eliot.’
‘I’m not letting myself expect too much,’ said Brown. ‘But if Sir Horace decided to raise £50,000 for us, I dare say he could.’
‘I dare say he could,’ I said.
They had asked me to join them that morning in order to plan the next move. They had heard nothing from Sir Horace since his visit. What could we do? Could we reach him again? Were any of my London acquaintances any use?
I thought them over, and shook my head.
‘Is it a good idea anyway to approach him from the outside?’ I asked. ‘I should have thought that it was very risky.’
‘I’ve felt that all along,’ said Brown.
‘You may be right,’ said Chrystal sharply, irritated but ready to think again. ‘What do we do? Do we just wait?’
‘We’ve got to rely on ourselves,’ said Brown.
‘What does that mean?’ said Chrystal.
‘We’ve got to get him down again,’ said Brown. ‘And let him see us as we really are. Put it another way – we must make him feel that he’s inside the picture. I don’t say we wouldn’t make things decent for the occasion. But we ought to let him realize the difficulty about Winslow. The more we take him into our confidence, within reason, the more likely he is to turn up trumps.’
I helped him persuade Chrystal. Chrystal was brusque, he liked his own ideas to prevail, he liked to have thought of a plan first; but I noticed the underlying sense which brought him round. He could have been a moody man; his temper was never equable; but he wanted results so much that he had been forced to control his moods.
They agreed to try to attract Sir Horace to the feast in February. Brown was as realistic as usual. ‘I don’t suppose for a moment that anything we can do will make a pennyworth of difference, once he’s made up his mind. But it can’t do any harm. If he’s forgetting us, it might turn out useful to remind him that we’re glad to see him here.’
He filled our glasses again. Chrystal gave a satisfied sigh. He said: ‘Well, we can’t do any more this morning. We’ve not wasted our time. I told you, Eliot, I regard this as more important than the Mastership. Masters come and Masters go, and whoever we elect, everyone will have forgotten about it in fifty years. Whereas a benefaction like this will affect the college for ever. Do you realize that the sum I’ve got in my mind is over ten per cent of our capital endowment?’
‘It would be a pity to miss it,’ said Brown.
‘I wish we hadn’t got this Mastership hanging over us,’ said Chrystal. ‘One thing is quite clear. There’s no reason to go outside. That’s just a piece of Winslow’s spite. We can find a Master inside the college easily enough. Jago would do. I was impressed with the way he spoke last night. He’s got some of the qualities I want in a Master.’
‘I agree,’ said Brown.
‘Other names will have to be considered, of course. I expect some people will want Crawford. I don’t know about him.’
‘I agree,’ said Brown. ‘I’m not keen on him. I don’t know whether Eliot is–’
‘No,’ I said.
‘He’ll certainly be run. I don’t know whether anyone will mention Winslow. You haven’t seen a Master elected, have you, Eliot? You’ll find some people are mad enough for anything. I’m depressed,’ said Chrystal, ‘at the whole prospect.’
Soon afterwards he left us. Brown gave a sympathetic smile. ‘He’s upset about poor Royce,’ he said.
‘Yes, I thought that.’
‘You’re very observant, aren’t you?’
Brown added: ‘I think Chrystal will get more interested when things are warming up a bit. I think he will.’ He smiled again. ‘You know, I don’t see how this can possibly be an easy election. Chrystal says that there may be support for Crawford, and I suppose there’s bound to be. But I should regard him as a disaster. He wouldn’t lift a finger for any of us. I don’t know what you feel, but I shall be inclined to stick in my heels about him.’
‘He wouldn�
��t do it well,’ I said.
‘I’m glad we’re thinking alike. I wonder whether you’ve come down definitely for anyone yet?’
His eyes were fixed on me, and I hesitated. Easily he went on: ‘I should value it if you would keep me in touch, when you do know where you’re coming down. My present feeling, for what it’s worth, is that we ought to think seriously about Jago. I know people criticize him; I’m quite prepared to admit that he’s not ideal; but my feeling is that we can’t go far wrong with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you agree, really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Might you consider supporting him?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think I shall.’
His glance had stayed on me. Now he looked away, and said: ‘I very much wanted to know how you would respond to his name. I’m not committed to him myself, of course. I’ve been held up a little by a personal matter which you’ll probably think a trifle far-fetched.’
‘Whatever’s that?’
‘Well,’ said Brown, ‘if Jago were to be elected Master, the college would need a new Senior Tutor. And it seems to me possible that some people would want me to follow him in the job.’
‘It’s a complete and utter certainty,’ I said. That was the truth.
‘It’s nice of you to say so, but I don’t believe it’s as certain as that. There are plenty who don’t think much of me,’ Brown chuckled. ‘But I can’t pretend it’s not a possibility. Well then, you see the problem. Am I justified in trying to get Jago in as Master, when I may provide myself with a better job out of it?’
‘There’s no doubt of the answer–’
‘Yes,’ said Brown. ‘I’ve arrived there myself after thinking it over. If one always stopped supporting people whose election could bring one the slightest advantage, it would be remarkably silly. Put it another way – only a crank could really be stopped by such scruples.’ He burst into his wholehearted, fat man’s laughter.
‘So I’m quite easy in my conscience about supporting Jago,’ he finished up. ‘But I’m still not ready to commit myself. He’d be a good Master, in my judgement. I’d put it a bit stronger, and say that he’s the best Master in view. We don’t want to run him, though, unless he’s got plenty of support. It would do no good to anyone.’
‘Well,’ he said, with a smile good-natured, cunning and wise, ‘that’s what I’ve been thinking. That’s as far as I’ve got.’
5: Success and Envy
Jago came to see me that afternoon. He made no reference to our first talk, or to the conversation about the Mastership the night before; but he had manufactured an excuse to call on me. He had thought up some questions about my law pupils; neither he nor I was interested in the answers.
He had been driven to see me – so that, if I had anything to say, he would know at once. His delicacy revolted, but he could not prevent himself from spinning out the visit. Was I going to Ireland again? He talked, with unaccustomed flatness, about his native town of Dublin. Not that he showed the vestigial trace of an Irish accent. He was born in the Ascendancy, his stock was as English as any of ours: he had – surprisingly, until one knew his origin – the militant conservatism of the Anglo-Irish. His father had been a fellow of Trinity, Dublin, and Jago was the only one of the present college who had been born into the academic life.
He went on talking, still tied to my room, unable to recognize that I could say nothing that day. I thought that no one else in his position would have kept his dignity so well; whatever his excesses, that remained. Before he went away, he had to ask: ‘Did I hear that you and Chrystal and Brown were colloguing this morning?’
‘Yes. It was just a financial matter. They wanted a legal opinion.’
He smiled off his disappointment.
‘You three work much too hard,’ he said.
The college was slowly filling up. I heard that Nightingale and Pilbrow were back from vacation, though I had not yet seen them. And the next evening, a few minutes before hall, I heard a familiar step on my staircase, and Roy Calvert came in.
He had been working for three months in Berlin. With relief I saw that he was looking well, composed and gay. He was the most gifted man the college had produced for years; as the Master said, he had already won an international reputation as an Orientalist. Yet he was sometimes a responsibility. He was the victim of attacks of melancholy so intense that no one could answer for his actions, and there had been times when he could scarcely bear the thought of living on.
That night, though, I knew at a glance that he was rested. He was more as I first knew him, cheerful, lively, disrespectful, and kind. He was my closest friend in Cambridge, and the closest I ever had. Thinking of the life he had led, the work he had got through, one found it hard to remember that he was not yet twenty-seven; yet in a gay mood, his eyes sparkling with malicious fun, he still looked very young.
We arrived a little late in the combination room, just in time to see Gay, with slow, shuffling steps, leading the file into hall. He was wearing an overcoat under his gown, so as to meet the draughty hall, and under the long coat there was something tortoise-like about his feet; but, when one looked at his face, there was nothing pathetic about him. His cheeks were red, his beard white, trimmed and sailor- like, his white hair silky and abundant; he carried his handsome head with arrogance and panache. He was nearly eighty, and the oldest fellow.
As he sat at the head of the table, tucking with good appetite into his food, Brown was trying to explain to him the news about the Master. Gay had not heard, or had forgotten: his memory was beginning to flicker and fade, he forgot quickly about the weeks and months just past. Brown was having some trouble in making it clear which Master he meant; Gay seemed to be thinking about the last Master but one.
‘Ah. Indeed,’ said Gay. ‘Very sad. But I have some recollection that he had to live on one floor some little time ago.’
‘That wasn’t the present Master,’ said Brown patiently. ‘I mean Royce.’
‘Indeed. Royce. You didn’t make that clear,’ Gay reproved him. ‘He’s surely a very young man. We only elected him recently. So he’s going, is he? Ah well, it will be a sad break with the past.’
He showed the triumph of the very old, when they hear of the death of a younger man. He felt half his age. Suddenly he noticed Roy Calvert, and his memory cleared.
‘Ah. Do I see Calvert? Haven’t you been deserting us?’
‘I got back to England this morning.’
‘Let me see. Let me see. Haven’t you been in Germany?’
‘Yes,’ said Roy Calvert.
‘I hadn’t forgotten you,’ said Gay victoriously. ‘And where in Germany, may I ask?’
‘Berlin.’
‘Ah. Berlin. A fine city. A fine university. I was once given an honorary degree of the university of Berlin. I remember it to this day. I remember being met at the Zoo station by one of their scholars – fine scholars they have in that country – and his first words were: “Professor M H L Gay, I think. The great authority on the sagas.” Ah. What do you think of that, Calvert? What do you think of that, Brown? The great authority on the sagas. They were absolutely the first words I heard when I arrived at the station. I had to demur to the word “great” of course.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘I said: “You can call me the authority on the sagas, if you like. The authority, without the great”.’
Brown and Chrystal chuckled. On Chrystal’s left, Nightingale looked polite but strained. Roy Calvert’s eyes shone: solemn and self-important persons were usually fair game to him, but Gay was too old. And his gusto was hard to resist.
‘That reminds me,’ Gay went on, ‘about honorary degrees. Do you know that I’ve now absolutely collected fourteen of them? What do you think of that, Calvert? What do you think of that, Chrystal?’
‘I call it pretty good,’ said Chrystal, smiling but impressed.
‘Fourteen honorary degrees. Not bad, eh? From every civilized country except France. The French
have never been willing to recognize merit outside their own country. Still, fourteen isn’t so bad. And there’s still time for one or two more.’
‘I should think there is,’ said Chrystal. ‘I should think there is. And I shall want to present a bottle in honour of every one of them, Gay.’
Gay said the final grace in a ringing voice, and led us slowly back to the room. On the table, a bottle of port was ready for him; though the rest of us preferred claret, it was a rule that the college should drink port on any night when he came in to dine. As Chrystal helped him off with his overcoat, Gay’s eye glittered at the sight of walnuts in a silver dish.
‘Ah. Nuts and wine,’ he said. ‘Splendid. Nuts and wine. Is the Steward here? Congratulate him for me.’
He rolled the port on his tongue and cracked nut after nut. His teeth were as sound as in youth, and he concentrated vigorously on his pleasure. Then he wiped his lips and said: ‘That reminds me. Are any of us publishing a book this year?’
‘I may be,’ said Roy. ‘If they can finish cutting the type for–’
‘I congratulate you,’ said Gay. ‘I congratulate you. I have a little work of my own coming out in the summer. I should not absolutely rank it among my major productions, but I’m quite pleased with it as a tour de force. I shall be interested to see the reception it obtains. I sometimes think one doesn’t receive such a fair hearing when one is getting on in years.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought you need worry,’ said Brown.
‘I like to insist on a fair hearing,’ Gay said. ‘I’m not vain, I don’t mind what they say against me, but I like to be absolutely assured that they’re being fair. That’s all I’ve asked for all along, ever since my first book.
‘Ah. My first book.’ He looked down the table. His eyes had been a bright china blue, but were fading now. ‘That was a great occasion, to be sure. When the Press told me the book was out, I went round to the bookshops to see for myself. Then I walked out to Grantchester to visit my brother-in-law Dr Ernest Fazackerley – my wife was his youngest sister, you know. And when I told him the great news, do you know that cat of his – ah, that was a cat and a half – he put up his two paws, and I could imagine for all the world that he was applauding me.’