by C. P. Snow
‘I don’t understand,’ said Chrystal at his sharpest.
‘I thought I made myself fairly clear,’ said Winslow.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Chrystal. This kind of obstinate pretence of incomprehension was one of his favourite techniques at a meeting. ‘I should like us to be reminded of the statute governing the election of a Master.’
‘I wonder,’ said Brown, ‘if you would be good enough to read it, Mr Deputy?’
‘I’m in the hands of the m-meeting,’ said Despard-Smith.
‘Why are we wasting time?’ said Francis Getliffe.
‘I should like the statute read,’ snapped Chrystal.
Winslow and Crawford exchanged glances, but Despard-Smith opened his copy of the statutes, which lay in front of him on the table, and began to read, half-intoning in a nasal voice: ‘When a vacancy in the office of Master shall become known to that fellow first in order of precedence he shall summon within forty-eight hours a meeting of the fellows. If the fellow first in order of precedence be not resident in Cambridge, or otherwise incapable of presiding, the duty shall pass to the next senior, and so on. When the fellows are duly assembled the fellow first in order of precedence attending shall announce to them the vacancy, and shall before midnight on the same day authorize a notice of the vacancy and of the time hereby regulated for the election of the new Master, and cause this notice to be placed in full sight on the chapel door. The time regulated for the election shall be ten o’clock on the morning on the fifteenth day from the date of the notice if the vacancy occur in term, or on the thirtieth day if it occur out of term.’
When he had finished, Gay said sonorously: ‘Ah. Indeed. Very interesting. Very remarkable. Fine piece of draughtsmanship, that statute.’
‘It makes my point,’ said Chrystal. ‘The college as a college can’t take any action till the Mastership is vacant. There’s no question before us. I move the next business.’
‘This is formalism carried to extreme limits,’ said Winslow angrily. ‘I’ve never known the Dean be so scrupulous on a matter of etiquette before–’
‘It’s completely obvious the matter must be discussed,’ said Francis Getliffe.
‘I’m sure the Dean never intended to suggest anything else, Mr Deputy,’ said Brown with a bland and open smile. ‘If I may take the words out of his mouth, I know the Dean hopes – as I feel certain we all do – that we shall discuss every possible element in the whole position, so that we finally do secure the true opinion and desire of the college. The little difference of opinion between us amounts to nothing more than whether our discussion should be done in a formal college meeting or outside.’
‘Or, to those of us who haven’t the gift for softening differences possessed by Mr Brown, whether we shall dissolve immediately into cabals,’ said Winslow with a savage, caustic grin, ‘or talk it out in the open.’
‘Speaking now as a fellow and not as a former medical man,’ said Crawford, ‘I consider that the college would be grossly imprudent not to use the next few months to resolve on the dispositions it must make.’
‘But that’s agreed by everybody,’ I put in. ‘The only question is, whether a formal college meeting is the most suitable place.’
‘Cabals versus the open air,’ said Winslow, and Nightingale smiled. Despard-Smith was not prepared for the waves of temper that were sweeping up.
‘I cannot remember any p-precedent in my long association with the college,’ he said.
Suddenly Pilbrow began speaking with great speed and earnestness: ‘The college can’t possibly have a meeting about a new Master… When the man who ought to be presiding is condemned… I’ve never known such an extraordinary lack of feeling.’
He finished, after his various starts, with complete lucidity. But the college had a habit of ignoring Pilbrow’s interventions, and Chrystal and Winslow had both begun to speak at once when Jago quietened them. His voice was not an orator’s: it was plummy, thick, produced far back in his throat. Yet, whenever he spoke, men’s glances turned to him. He had his spectacles in hand, and his eyes, for once unveiled, were hard.
‘I have no doubt,’ he said, ‘that we have just listened to the decisive word. This is not the first time that Mr Pilbrow has represented to some of us the claims of decent feeling. Mr Deputy, the Master of this college is now lying in his Lodge, and he has asked you to preside in his place. We know that we must settle on someone to succeed him, however difficult it is. But we can do that in our own way, without utterly offending the taste of some of us by insisting on doing it in this room – in a meeting of which he is still the head.’ When he sat back the room stayed uncomfortably still.
‘That settles it,’ said Roy Calvert in a clear voice.
‘I moved the next business ten minutes ago,’ said Chrystal, staring domineeringly at Despard-Smith. ‘I believe Mr Brown seconded it. Is it time to vote on my motion? I’m ready to wait all evening.’
The motion was carried by seven votes to four. For: Pilbrow, Jago, Brown, Chrystal, myself, Calvert, Luke. Against: Winslow, Crawford, Nightingale, Getliffe.
Neither Despard-Smith nor Gay voted.
11: View from Roy Calvert’s Window
At hall after the meeting, Winslow was grumbling about Jago’s last speech – ‘high-minded persons have a remarkable gift for discovering that the requirements of decent feeling fit in exactly with what they want to do’. I thought about how we had voted. The sides were sorting themselves out. Nightingale had voted with the opposition: was that merely a gesture of suspiciousness against Chrystal and Brown? He was the most uncomfortable of bedfellows. Despard-Smith would presumably vote for Crawford. What about old Gay? He might do anything. I fancied Pilbrow would decide for Jago. It looked encouraging.
Two days afterwards, a note came round: ‘Those who are not disposed to vote for the Senior Tutor may like to discuss candidates for the Mastership. I suggest a meeting in my rooms at 2.30 on Friday, Jan. 18. G H W.’
Winslow had had his note duplicated in the bursary, and sent it to each fellow. There was a good deal of comment. ‘The man’s got no manners,’ said Chrystal. ‘He’s always doing his best to make the place a beargarden.’ Brown said: ‘I’ve got a feeling that the college won’t be a very happy family for the next few months.’ Jago said: ‘I shall manage to hold my tongue – but he’s being needlessly offensive.’
Although Roy Calvert and I were waited on by the same servant, his rooms were to be found not in the first court proper, but in a turret over the kitchen. His sitting-room commanded a view of the second court and the staircase up which Winslow’s visitors must go. I arrived there after lunch on the Friday afternoon; Roy was standing at his upright desk, reading a manuscript against a lighted opalescent screen.
‘I’ve kept an eye across the way,’ he said. ‘No one has declared himself yet.
‘I need to finish this,’ he went on, looking back at the screen. ‘There’s a new martyr in this psalm.’
He read for a few minutes, and then joined me by the window. We looked across, through the mist of the raw January afternoon, to the separate building which contained the sets not only of Winslow, but also of Pilbrow and Chrystal. It was a building of palladian harmony; Eustace Pilbrow had lived in it for fifty years, and said that it was still as tranquil to look at as when he saw it for the first time.
It was twenty-five past two.
‘High time the enemy appeared,’ said Roy.
Just then Winslow came lounging along the path from the first court. He wore no overcoat, but, as usual when in college on business, a black coat and striped trousers. As he lounged along, his feet came down heavily at each step; one could guess from his gait that he had unusually big feet.
‘He’s declared himself, anyway,’ said Roy. ‘He’d be sold if no one else turned up.’
Roy was on edge in his own fashion, though he was not given to anxiety. Waiting for critical news of his own, he felt instead of anxiety a tingle of excitement. He fe
lt it now, watching for news of Jago’s chances.
We saw Winslow disappear in the mouth of his staircase.
‘He’s extremely tiresome.’ Roy smiled. ‘But I like the old stick. So do you.’
A moment later, Despard-Smith, in clerical hat and overcoat, walked across the front of the building from the third court.
‘That was only to be expected,’ I said.
‘If he weren’t able to express his view,’ said Roy, ‘it would be nothing short of catastrophic.’
Francis Getliffe came quickly the way Winslow had come, in his long plunging strides.
‘Now he ought to know better,’ said Roy.
‘He’s got some good reasons.’
‘He’s getting stuffier as he gets older.’
The half-hour struck. Very slowly, along the same path, came Gay. One foot shuffled slowly in front of the other; he was muffled up to the throat, but his cheeks shone very red, his beard very white.
‘How in God’s name did he decide?’ I cried in disappointment.
He took minutes to make his way across the court. He was almost there when we saw Nightingale come along from the third court and join him.
‘Judas?’ said Roy.
They talked for a moment; we saw Nightingale shake his head and walk away in our direction.
‘Apparently not,’ I said.
Then, from the first court, Crawford walked smoothly into view. He was late, he was moving fast, but he gave no appearance of hurry. Roy whistled ‘Here comes the bride’ until he slipped up Winslow’s staircase.
‘I wonder,’ said Roy suddenly, ‘if old Winslow is still hoping. I wonder if he expects to be asked to stand this afternoon.’
‘People hope on,’ I said, ‘long after they admit it to themselves.’
‘Just so,’ said Roy. ‘In this case until they’re seventy.’ (Under the statutes, seventy was the retiring age for the Master.)
No one else came. The court was empty.
‘Is that the whole party?’ said Roy. ‘I believe it is.’
We waited, and heard the quarters chime. We waited again. ‘If this is all, old boy,’ cried Roy, ‘it’s in the bag.’ We still stood there, looking over the court. The mist was deepening. An undergraduate brought in a girl, and they passed out of sight towards the third court. All of a sudden a light shone from Winslow’s room. It made the court seem emptier, the afternoon more raw.
‘They’ve only collected five,’ said Roy. ‘Not many. They’ve lost face.’
Crawford came out again into the court. Again quickly but without hurry, he walked towards the first court. We could see down on to his face as he approached. He looked utterly impassive.
‘Asked to retire,’ I said.
‘I wonder what he thinks his chances are,’ said Roy. He added: ‘One thing – Winslow knows the worst now. His last chance has gone.’
‘I’m sorry for some of our friends,’ I said, ‘if they sit next to him tonight.’
‘I’d better get there early,’ said Roy. ‘I can look after myself.’ I smiled. We gazed, as the afternoon darkened, at the one window lighted in the quiet building. At last Roy turned away. ‘That is that,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty remarkable, old boy. We seem to be home.’
‘I think I’d better tell Arthur Brown,’ I said. Roy’s telephone stood by his bedside, and I went there and talked to Brown. ‘How do you know how many turned up?’ I heard Brown saying, cautious and inquisitive as ever. ‘How can you possibly have found out?’
I explained that we had been watching from Roy Calvert’s window. Brown was satisfied, and asked for the names again. ‘Our party seems to be hanging together,’ he said. ‘But I think, to be on the safe side, I’ll give a little luncheon soon. I say, Eliot, I’m sorry about old Gay. I should like to know who got at him. We’ve let them steal a march on us there.’
‘But it’s pretty good,’ I said.
‘I must say it looks perfectly splendid.’ For a second Brown had let himself go. Then the voice turned minatory again: ‘Of course, you’ll remember it’s much too early to throw your hats in the air. We haven’t even got a paper majority for Paul Jago yet. We must go carefully. You mustn’t let people feel that we think it’s safe. It would be a wise precaution if you and Calvert didn’t let on that you know who turned up this afternoon.’
I told Roy, who gave a malicious chuckle.
‘Good old Uncle Arthur,’ he said. ‘He must be the only person on this earth who regards you as an irresponsible schoolboy. It gives me great pleasure.’
He rang down to the kitchens for tea and crumpets, and we ate them by the fire. When we had finished and I was sitting back with my last cup of tea, Roy glanced at me with a secretive grin. From a drawer he produced, as though furtively, a child’s box of bricks. ‘I bought these yesterday,’ he said. ‘I thought they might come in useful. They won’t be necessary unless Winslow shows us a new trick or two. But I may as well set them out.’
He always had a love for the concrete, though his whole professional life was spent with words. Another man would have written down the fellows’ names, but Roy liked selecting fourteen identical bricks, and printing on them the names from Royce to Luke. The brick marked Royce he put by itself without a word. His expression lightened as he placed the two bricks Jago and Crawford together. Then he picked out Gay, Despard-Smith, Winslow, and Getliffe, and arranged them in a row. He left the other seven in a huddle – ‘until everyone’s in the open. It ought to be a clear majority.’
I had to give two supervisions from five to seven, and when the second was over went straight to the combination room. There Crawford was sitting by the fire alone, reading the local paper. He nodded, impersonally cordial, as I went over to the sherry table. When I came back, glass in hand, to the armchairs, Crawford looked at me over the top of his paper. ‘I don’t like the look of the war, Eliot,’ he said. ‘The war’ was the civil war in Spain.
‘Nor do I,’ I said.
‘Our people are getting us into a ridiculous mess. Every Thursday when I go up to the Royal I try to call on someone or other who is supposed to be running our affairs. I try to make a different call each week and persuade them to see a little military sense. It’s the least one can do, but I never come away feeling reassured. Speaking as one liberal to another, Eliot, and without prejudice to your subject, I should feel happier if we had a few men of science in the House and the Foreign Office.’
For a few minutes he talked about the winter campaign in Spain. He had made a hobby of military history, and his judgement was calm and steady. Everything he said was devastatingly sensible.
Then Jago entered. He started as he saw Crawford, then greeted him with effusiveness. He was more uncomfortable than I had ever seen him – more uncomfortable, I suddenly realized, because he had heard the good news of the afternoon. He felt guilty in the presence of the less lucky one.
Crawford was unperturbed.
‘I think we’d better abandon our military researches for tonight, Eliot,’ he said. ‘I believe the Senior Tutor isn’t specially interested in war. And certainly doesn’t share our sympathies about the present one. He’ll realize we were right in time.’
He got up from his chair, and stood facing Jago. He was several inches shorter, but he had the physical presence that comes through being able to keep still.
‘But I am glad of the chance of a word with you, Jago,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of sending you a note. That won’t be necessary if we can have three minutes. I understand that Eliot is committed to support you, and so I can speak in his presence.’
‘By all means,’ said Jago. ‘I am in your hands. Go ahead, my dear man, go ahead.’
‘This afternoon,’ said Crawford, ‘I was asked to let myself be a candidate for the Mastership. Those who asked me did not constitute a numerical majority of the college, but they represent a sound body of opinion. I saw no reason to hesitate. I don’t approve of people who have to be persuaded to play, like the young woman
who just happens to have brought her music. I told them I was ready to let my name go forward.’
He was confident, impervious, conceited, self-assured. On the afternoon’s showing he was left without a chance, but he seemed in control of the situation.
‘I’m very grateful to you for telling me,’ said Jago.
‘It was the least I could do,’ said Crawford. ‘We are bound to be the only serious candidates.’
‘I wish both the candidates,’ said Jago, with a sudden smile, ‘reached the standard of distinction set by one of them.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Crawford replied. ‘There will be one question for us two to decide together. That is, what to do with our own personal votes. We ought to reach a working agreement on that. It is conceivable that the question may become important.’
Then he said that he was dining in another college, and left us with a cordial, impersonal goodnight.
Jago sighed and smiled.
‘I’d give a good deal for that assurance, Eliot!’
‘If you had it,’ I said, ‘you’d lose something else.’
‘I wonder,’ Jago cried, ‘if he’s ever imagined that he could possibly be wrong? Has he ever thought for a minute that he might possibly disgrace himself and fail?’
Not in this world of professional success, power, ambition, influence among men, I thought. Of his mastery in this world Crawford was absolutely and impenetrably confident. Nothing had ever shaken him, or could now.
But I guessed that in his nature there was one rift of diffidence. He had a quiet, comely wife and a couple of children – while Jago would go home after dinner to his tormented shrew. Yet I guessed that, in time past, Crawford had been envious of Jago’s charm for women. Jago had never been frightened that he might not win love: he had always known, with the unconscious certainty of an attractive man, that it would come his way. It was an irony that it came in such a form; but he stayed confident with women, he was confident of love; in fact, it was that confidence which helped him to devote such tenderness and such loving patience upon his wife. Whereas Crawford as a young man had wondered in anguish whether any woman would ever love him. For all his contented marriage – on the surface so much more enviable than Jago’s – he had never lost that diffidence, and there were still times when he envied such men as Jago from the bottom of his heart.