by C. P. Snow
12: Jago Walks Round the Court
The evening after Winslow’s caucus, Brown asked me to join him and Chrystal, and when I went into Brown’s room, they were busy talking. Brown said to me: ‘I suggested we should meet here because it’s a bit more private than the combination room. And I happen to have a glass of manzanilla waiting for you. We think it’s rather helpful to a bit of business.’
Brown gave me my glass, settled himself, and went on: ‘I regard it as desirable to strike while the iron’s hot. I can’t forgive myself for letting them snatch old Gay from in front of our noses. We must have our little lunch before we lose anyone else.’
‘I’m with you,’ said Chrystal.
‘I think they’ve shown more enterprise than we have,’ said Brown, ‘and we’ve got out of it better than we deserved.’
‘If I were Crawford, I shouldn’t thank Winslow much,’ said Chrystal. ‘He’s just run amok. He’s done them more harm than good. If Crawford had us to look after him, there’d be no need to have an election.’
‘Well,’ said Brown, ‘I shall be happier when we’ve got our party round a lunch table.’
‘We must make them speak,’ said Chrystal.
‘You’ll preside,’ said Brown, ‘and you can make everyone say that he’s supporting Jago.’
‘Why should I preside?’
‘That’s your job. I regard you as the chairman of our party.’ Brown smiled. ‘And we ought to have this lunch on Sunday. The only remaining point is whom do we ask. I was telling the Dean’ – he said to me – ‘that I haven’t been entirely idle. I haven’t let the other side get away with everything. I think I’ve got Eustace Pilbrow. We certainly ought to ask him to the lunch. He’s never been specially interested in these things, and he’s not enormously enthusiastic, but I think I’ve got him. Put it another way: if Jago were a bit of a crank politically – saving your presence, Eliot – I believe Eustace would support him up to the hilt. As it is, I’m quite optimistic.’
‘That only leaves young Luke,’ said Chrystal. ‘Everyone else has got tabs on them. So I reckon at present.’
‘Obviously we invite the other three, Pilbrow, Nightingale, and Roy Calvert,’ said Brown. ‘The question is, Eliot, whether we invite young Luke. I must say that I’m rather against it.’
‘He only needs a bit of persuasion,’ Chrystal said sharply. ‘Either side could get him for the asking. He’s a child.’
In the months since Luke became a fellow, I had not got to know him, except as an observant, intelligent, discreet, and sanguine face at hall and college meetings. Once I had walked round the garden with him for half an hour.
‘I wonder whether you’re right,’ I said to Chrystal. ‘It may not be as easy as you think.’
‘Dead easy for us. Dead easy for Winslow,’ said Chrystal.
‘I agree,’ said Brown. ‘I believe the Dean’s right.
‘That’s why,’ he went on, ‘I’m against inviting him.’ His face was flushed, but stubborn and resolute. ‘I want to say where I stand on this. I won’t be a party to over-persuading Luke. He’s a young man, he’s not a permanency here yet, he’s got his way to make, and it would be a damned shame to hamper him. At the very best it won’t be easy for the college to keep him when his six years are up: we’ve got one physicist in Getliffe, and it will be hard to make a case for another as a fixture.’ (Roy Calvert and Luke were research fellows appointed for six years: when that period ended, the college could keep them or let them go. It was already taken for granted that a special place must be found for Roy Calvert.) ‘It stands to reason that Luke has got to look to Crawford and Getliffe. They’re the scientists, they’re the people who can help him, they’re the people who’ve got to make a case if the college is ever going to keep him. You can’t blame him if he doesn’t want to offend them. If I’d started as the son of a dockyard hand, as that boy did, though no one would ever think it, I shouldn’t feel like taking the slightest risk. I’m certainly not going to persuade him to take it. Whichever side he comes down on, I say that it isn’t for us to interfere.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘Francis Getliffe is a very fair-minded man–’
‘I give you that,’ said Brown. ‘I’m not saying that voting for Jago would necessarily make a scrap of difference to Luke’s future. But he may feel that he’s making an enemy. If he does, I for one wouldn’t feel easy about talking him round.’
‘You’ve got a point there,’ said Chrystal.
‘The furthest I feel inclined to go,’ said Brown, ‘is to send him a note saying that some of us have now decided to support Jago. I’ll tell him we’re meeting on Sunday to discuss ways and means, but we’re not inviting people who still want time to make up their minds.’
‘I’m sorry to say,’ said Chrystal, ‘that I think you’re right.’
There we left it for the evening. It was easier to understand their hold on the college, I thought, when one saw their considerate good nature, right in the middle of their politics. No one could run such a society for long without a degree of trust. That trust most of the college had come to place in them. They were politicians, they loved power, at many points they played the game only just within the rules. But they set themselves limits and did not cross them. They kept their word. And in human things, particularly with the young, they were uneasy unless they behaved in a fashion that was scrupulous and just. People were ready to believe this of Brown, but found it harder to be convinced that it was also true of his friend. They saw clearly enough that Chrystal was the more ruthless: they did not see that he was the more tender-hearted.
In this particular instance, as it happened, they did not evoke the response that they deserved. Luke sat next to me in hall that night. For a couple of nights past he had been less sanguine and bright-eyed than usual: I asked about his work.
‘It seems to be describing a sine curve,’ he said. I had to recollect that a sine curve went up and down.
He went on: ‘Sometimes I think it’s all set. Sometimes I think it’s as useless as the Great Pyramid. I’m in the second phase just now. I’m beginning to wonder if I shall ever get the wretched thing out.’
He was depressed and irritable, and just then happened to hear Brown quietly inviting Roy Calvert to lunch in order ‘to give Jago’s campaign a proper start’.
‘What is all this?’ Luke asked me. ‘Is this the reply to Winslow’s meeting?’
‘Roughly,’ I said.
‘Am I being asked?’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that Brown felt you hadn’t yet made up your mind.’
‘He hasn’t taken much trouble to find out,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll have it out with him afterwards.’
Passing round the wine in the combination room, he was quiet and deferential to the old men, as he always was. I was beginning to realize the check he imposed on his temper. An hour later, as Brown and I left the room and went into the court, Luke came rapidly behind us.
‘Brown, why haven’t I been invited to this bloody caucus?’
‘It isn’t quite a caucus, Luke. I was just going to write to explain–’
‘It’s a meeting of Jago’s supporters, isn’t it?’
‘One or two of us,’ said Brown, ‘have come to the conclusion that he’s the right man. And–’
‘So have I. Why hasn’t someone spoken to me about it? Why haven’t I been told?’
It was raining, and we had hurried through the court into the gateway, for Brown was on his way home. We stood under the great lantern.
‘Why, to tell you the truth, Luke, we thought you might naturally want to vote for Crawford. And we didn’t want to put any pressure on you.’
‘I’m buggered if I vote for Crawford,’ cried Luke. ‘You might have given me credit for more sense. Jago would make one of the best Masters this college has ever had.’
So Luke appeared for the Sunday lunch in Brown’s rooms, once more effacing himself into discretion again, dressed with a subfusc taste more cultivated
than that of anyone there except Roy Calvert. Unobtrusively he inhaled the bouquet of his glass of Montrachet.
Brown had placed Chrystal at one end of the table, and took the other himself. After we had sipped the wine, Brown said contentedly: ‘I’m glad most of you seem to like it. I thought it was rather suitable. After all, we don’t meet for this purpose very frequently.’
Brown’s parties were always modest. One had a couple of glasses of a classical wine, and that was all – except once a year, when his friends who had a taste in wine were gathered together for an evening. This Sunday there was nothing with lunch but the Montrachet, but afterwards he circulated a bottle of claret. ‘I thought we needed something rather fortifying,’ said Brown, ‘before we started our little discussion.’
We were content after our lunch. Pilbrow was a gourmet, young Luke had the sensuous gusto to become one; Chrystal and Roy Calvert and I enjoyed our food and drink. Pilbrow was chuckling to himself.
‘Much better than the poor old Achaeans–’ I distinguished among the chuckles. We asked what it was all about, and Pilbrow became lucid: ‘I was reading the Iliad – Book XI – again in bed – Pramnian wine sprinkled with grated goat’s cheese – Pramnian wine sprinkled with grated goat’s cheese – Oh, can anyone imagine how horrible that must have been?’
Six of us went on enjoying our wine. Meanwhile Nightingale sat over a cup of coffee, envying us for our pleasure, trying to be polite and join in the party.
In time Brown asked Chrystal whether we ought not to make a start with the discussion. There was the customary exchange of compliments between them: Chrystal wondered why he should act as chairman, when Brown himself was there: Brown felt the sense of the meeting required the Dean. At last, the courtesies over, Chrystal turned sharply to business. He wished us each to define our attitude to the Mastership, in order of seniority; he would wind up himself. So, sitting round the littered table after lunch, we each made a speech.
Pilbrow opened, as usual over-rapidly. But his intention was clear and simple. He was sorry that Jago had some reactionary opinions: but he was friendly, he took great trouble about human beings, and Pilbrow would vote for him against Crawford. It was a notable speech for a man of seventy-four; listening with concentration, I was surprised how little he was attended to. Chrystal was spinning the stem of a glass between his fingers; even Brown was not peering with acute interest.
Brown was listened to by everyone. For the first time, he spoke his whole mind about Jago, and he spoke it with an authority, a conviction, a round integrity, that drew us all together. Jago would make an outstandingly good Master, and his election would be a fine day’s work for the college. Put it another way: if the college was misguided enough to elect Crawford, we should be down twice: once by getting a bad Master, once by losing a first-class one. And the second point was the one for us to give our minds to.
Nightingale made a circuitous attack on Crawford, in the course of which he threw doubts, the first time I had heard him or anyone else suggest them, on Crawford’s real distinction as a scientist. ‘His work may be discredited in ten years, any work of his sort may be, and then the college would be in an awkward situation.’ The others round the table became puzzled and hushed, while Nightingale smiled.
I developed Pilbrow’s point, and asked them what human qualities they thought they wanted in a Master. For myself, I answered: a disinterested interest in other people: magnanimity: a dash of romantic imagination. No one could doubt Jago had his share of the last, I said, and got a laugh. I said that in my view he was more magnanimous than most men, and more interested in others.
Roy Calvert took the same line, at greater length, more fancifully. He finished with a sparkle of mischief: ‘Lewis Eliot and I are trying to say that Jago is distinguished as a man. If anyone asks us to prove it, there’s only one answer – just spend an hour with him. If that isn’t convincing it isn’t our fault – or Jago’s.’
Luke said no more than he was sure Jago would be a splendid Master, and that he would vote for him in any circumstances.
Chrystal had made a note on the back of an envelope after each speech. Now he summed up, brusque, giving his usual hint of impatience or ill-temper, competent and powerful. He had wanted to be certain how far the party were prepared to commit themselves. Unless he had misunderstood the statements, Brown, Nightingale, and Luke were prepared to vote for Jago without qualifications; Eliot and Calvert would support him against any candidate so far mentioned; Pilbrow promised to support him against Crawford. ‘Have I got anyone wrong?’ he asked sharply.
Brown and I were each watching Nightingale. No one spoke. One by one, we nodded.
‘That’s very satisfactory as far as it goes,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m not going to waste your time with a speech. I can go at least as far as Pilbrow, and I think I find myself with Eliot and Calvert. I’m for Jago against Crawford and any other names I’ve heard. I’m not prepared to go the whole way with Brown just yet. I don’t think Jago is an ideal candidate. He’s not well enough known outside. But he’ll do.’
He looked across the table at Brown.
‘There’s a majority for Jago in this room,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more to do this afternoon.’
We were all stimulated, there was a glow of success and conspirators’ excitement round the table. Brown and Chrystal told of the moves which had gone on before the present Master was elected. I learned for the first time that Jago had tried, in that election, to get together a party for Winslow. I asked whether they were remembering right. ‘Oh yes,’ said Brown, ‘they hadn’t got across each other so badly then. I shouldn’t have said they were ever specially friendly, though, should you?’ he asked Chrystal.
The talk kept to elections of past Masters. Pilbrow began to laugh. ‘I’ve just thought–’ then he added with complete clarity: ‘In my almost infinite period as a fellow, I’ve never even been mentioned as a possible candidate. And I’ve never taken the slightest useful part in getting one elected. That’s a long-distance record no one can ever beat.’ He went on laughing. He did not care. He was known, admired, loved all over Europe; he had great influence in letters; but nothing could make him effective at a college meeting. It was strange – and I thought again of Roy Calvert at the last meeting – that those two, both very natural men, should not be able to project themselves into a committee. Perhaps they were too natural. Perhaps, for influence in the affairs of solid men, one had to be able to send, as the Master said, the ‘old familiar phrases reverberating round’. Neither Pilbrow nor Roy Calvert could do that without laughing. To be an influence in any society, in fact, one can be a little different, but only a little; a little above one’s neighbours, but not too much. Pilbrow did much good, Roy Calvert was often selfless; but neither of them was humble enough to learn the language of more ordinary men.
But, even if they had tried their hardest, neither of them could ever have been the power that Brown or Chrystal was. Groups of men, even small groups, act strangely differently from individuals. They have less humour and simpler humour, are more easy to frighten, more difficult to charm, distrust the mysterious more, and enjoy firm, flat, competent expositions which a man by himself would find inexcusably dull. Perhaps no group would ever let itself be guided by Roy Calvert.
In the same way, the seven of us sitting at the table through the winter afternoon became more enthusiastic for Jago than any of us taken alone: our pleasure was simple, our exhilaration intense. Even Nightingale caught it. We were together, and for an hour everyone surrendered to the excitement; Jago would win, we wanted Jago, and all seemed bright.
The kitchen porters brought in tea at four o’clock. The excitement broke; we split into twos and threes; muffin in hand, Chrystal talked quietly to me about Sir Horace’s visit a month hence. Then, as had been arranged, Jago came into the room.
‘Good afternoon, Dean. Good afternoon, Brown. You mustn’t let me interrupt. I expect you haven’t finished your busines
s. I should be so sorry to interrupt.’
He was restless with anxiety, and at his worst. Chrystal stood up, stiff and dominating. If Jago was to be Master, he wanted it clear between them that he had brought it about. His expression was hard, almost threatening.
‘We’ve finished, Jago,’ he said. ‘I can tell you that we’ve had a satisfactory meeting.’
‘Just so,’ said Roy Calvert, trying to soothe Jago’s nerves.
‘I mustn’t ask about your secrets,’ said Jago. His smile was vivid but uneasy. There was a lull, and then Pilbrow asked about some old member in the Foreign Office. Would he help about a refugee? Was he approachable? What was he like?
‘You’ll find his general attitude utterly unsatisfactory according to your views,’ said Jago. ‘He’s what the Dean and Brown and I would consider sound.’
‘Sound,’ Pilbrow said. ‘You’ll lose the bloody empire and everything else, between you. Sound.’
‘I was going to say, however much we’re on different sides, we’re none of us above doing a job for a friend. I should be very much upset if–’
He promised to write that night about Pilbrow’s refugee, and Pilbrow, mollified, asked about others at the Foreign Office. Jago was still on edge, eager to say yes, eager to keep the conversation alive. Did he know H—? A little. Sir P—J—? Reluctantly, Jago said no. Did he know P—?
‘Do I know P—?’ cried Jago. ‘Do I know P—, my dear Eustace? I should think I do. The first time I met him, he asked my advice about a minister’s private life!’
He stayed in that vein, at his most flamboyant, until the party broke up. Roy Calvert and Brown knew the reason, and Roy, as though in fun, actually in kindness, laughed at him as if it were a casual tea party and gave Jago the chance to score off him in reply. Jago took it, and amused us, especially Nightingale, with his jokes at Roy’s expense. But the anxiety returned, and with it his flow of extravagance. Chrystal did not respond much, and went away early; then Pilbrow and Luke. Nightingale seemed to be enjoying himself, and I began to listen to the quarters, each time they chimed outside. So long as he stayed, Jago could not ask.