by C. P. Snow
The two candidates arranged to meet us after hall, at half-past eight. Both came in to dinner, and Jago’s face was so white with feeling that I expected an outburst straightaway. But in fact he began by clowning. It was disconcerting, but I had seen him do it before when he was strung up and about to take the centre of the stage. He pretended – I did not know whether it was a turn or a true story – that some undergraduate had that afternoon mistaken him for an assistant in a bookshop. ‘Do I look like a shop assistant? I’m rather glad that I’m not completely branded as a don.’
‘You’re not quite smart enough,’ said Roy, and in fact Jago was usually dressed in an old suit.
Jago went on with his turn. No one noticed the change in him when we were sitting in the combination room.
Word had gone round that the ‘memorialists’ were to confer with Crawford and Jago, and so by halfpast eight the room was left to us. The claret was finished, and Crawford lit a cigar.
‘I think we can now proceed to business, Mr Deputy,’ he said.
‘Certainly,’ said Despard-Smith.
‘Our answer is a tale that’s soon told.’ Crawford leaned back, and the end of his cigar glowed. ‘The Senior Tutor and I have had a word about your ultimatum. We haven’t any option but to accept it.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Chrystal.
‘If there are no other candidates, we shall vote for each other,’ said Crawford imperturbably. ‘Speaking as a private person, I don’t think one can take much exception to what you want us to do. I think I do take a mild exception to the way you’ve done it, but not so strongly as my colleague. However, that’s past history, and it’s neither here nor there.’ He smiled.
Jago leaned forward in his chair, and slight as the movement was, we all looked at him. ‘For my part, I wish to say something more,’ he said.
‘I should leave it alone,’ said Crawford. ‘What’s done can’t be undone. You’ll only take it out of yourself.’
In fact, Jago was looking tired to breaking point. His face had no colour left, and the lines were deep – with sombre anger, with humiliation, with the elation that he might be safe again.
‘It’s good of you,’ said Jago to Crawford, ‘but I should be less than honest if I didn’t speak. I take the strongest exception to the way this has been done. It was unnecessary to expose us to this kind of compulsion. Apparently you’ – his eyes went round the table – ‘consider that one of the two of us is fit to be your Master: I should have hoped that you might in the meantime treat us like responsible persons. I should have hoped that was not asking too much. Why couldn’t this have been settled decently amongst us?’
‘We don’t all share your optimism, my dear Senior Tutor,’ said Winslow.
‘We were anxious to get everything in order,’ said Brown, eager to smooth things down. ‘We didn’t want to leave any loose ends, because none of us know how much time we’ve got left.’
‘That’s no reason for treating Crawford and me like college servants,’ said Jago.
‘Since when have college servants been required to vote for each other?’ Winslow asked.
Jago looked at him. His anger appeared to quieten. His white and furrowed face became still.
‘You are taking advantage of my position as a candidate,’ he said. ‘A candidate is fair play for any kind of gibe. You know that he’s not at liberty to speak his mind. No doubt he deserves any gibes you care to offer him. Anyone who is fool enough to stand for office deserves anything that comes his way.’
Winslow did not reply, and no one spoke. Crawford smoked impassively on, but all our attention was on Jago. He dominated the room.
‘You have taught me that lesson,’ he said. ‘I shall vote for Crawford at the election.’
As we were leaving, Jago spoke in a low voice to Chrystal: ‘I should like to say something to you and Brown and Eliot.’
‘We can go back,’ said Chrystal. So, standing in the combination room, Jago faced three of his supporters.
‘I should have been told about this.’ His voice was quiet, but his anger had caught fire again.
‘I passed the word along as soon as we had decided to push forward,’ said Brown.
‘I should have been told. I should have been told at the first mention of this piece of – persuasion.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Chrystal.
‘When I find my party is negotiating behind my back–’
‘This isn’t a party matter, Jago,’ Chrystal broke in. ‘It’s a college matter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jago, in a tone as brusque as Chrystal’s, ‘but I’m not used to having my actions dictated. Before my friends arrange to do so, I expect them to tell me first.’
‘Perhaps the circumstances are a little unfortunate,’ said Brown, ‘but I’m inclined to suggest that we’re all losing our sense of proportion. I think you’re forgetting that something very notable has been achieved. I’m not saying that it’s all over bar the counting of the votes, but I do put it to you that things look brighter than they have done since Nightingale got angry with us. You’re standing with a clear majority again, and the sensible course for us all is to keep it intact until we walk into the chapel.’
He went on: ‘I expect you know that you owe it entirely to the Dean. Put it another way: the Dean is the only man who could have forced a vote out of the other side. It was a wonderful night’s work.’
Beneath the round, measured, encouraging words there was strength and warning. Jago knew they were intended for him. He gazed into Brown’s eyes; there was a pause, in which I thought I saw a quiver pass through his body; then he said: ‘Your heads are cooler than mine. You must make allowances, as I know you’re only too willing to do. I know Chrystal appreciates that I admire everything he does. This was an astonishing manoeuvre, I know. I’m very grateful, Chrystal.’
‘I’m glad it came off,’ Chrystal replied.
I walked back with Jago to his house to fetch a book. He scarcely spoke a word. He was at the same time elated, anxious, and bitterly ashamed.
I was thinking of him and Crawford. That night, Crawford had been sensible, had even been kind to his rival. I could understand the feeling that he was the more dependable. It was true. Yet, of the two, which was born to live in men’s eyes?
And Jago knew it. He knew his powers, and how they were never used. The thought wounded him – and also made him naked to life. He had been through heartbreak because of his own frailty. He had seen his frailty without excuses or pity. I felt it was that – not his glamour, not his sympathy, not his bouts of generous passion – it was that nakedness to life which made me certain we must have him instead of Crawford. He was vulnerable in his own eyes.
Why had he never used his powers? Why had he done nothing? Sometimes I thought he was too proud to compete – and also too diffident. Perhaps at the deepest level pride and diffidence became the same. He could not risk a failure. He was born to be admired from below, but he could not bear the rough-and-tumble, the shame, the breath of the critics. His pride was mountainous, his diffidence intense. Even that night he had been forced to clown before he scarified his enemies. He despised what others said of him, and yet could not endure it.
There was one other thing. Through pride, through diffidence, he had spent his life among men whose attention he captured without an effort, with whom he did not have to compete. But it was the final humiliation if they would not recognize him. That was why the Mastership lived in his mind like an obsession. He ought to have been engaged in a struggle for great power; he blamed himself that he was not, but it sharpened every desire of his for this miniature power. He ought to have been just Paul Jago, known to all the world with no title needed to describe him, his name more glowing than any title. But his nature had forced him to live all his life in the college: at least, at least, he must be Master of it.
29: ‘A Vacancy in the Office of Master’
In November we heard that the Master was nea
r his death.
On December 2nd, Joan told Roy Calvert: ‘The doctor has just told us that he’s got pneumonia. This is the end.’ As we were going into hall on December 4th, the news was brought that the Master had just died. Despard-Smith made an announcement to the undergraduates, and there was a hush throughout the meal. In the combination room afterwards coffee was served at once, and we listened to a simple and surprising eulogy from old Despard-Smith.
Soon, however, he and Winslow and Brown were occupied with procedure.
‘I am no longer Deputy,’ said Despard-Smith. ‘I ceased to be Deputy the moment the Master died. The statutes are explicit on this point. The responsibility for announcing the vacancy passes to the senior fellow. I must say I view with apprehension having to rely on Gay to steer us through this business. It places us in a very serious position.’
They studied the statutes again, but they had done so frequently in the past weeks, and there was no way out. The governing statute was the one which Despard-Smith had read out at the first meeting of the Lent term.
‘There’s no escape,’ said Brown. ‘We can only hope that he’ll get through it all right. Perhaps he’ll feel the responsibility is too much for him and ask to be excused. If so, as Pilbrow isn’t here, it will devolve on you, Despard, and everything will be safe. But we shouldn’t be in order in passing over Gay. The only thing remaining is to let him know at once.’
Despard-Smith at once wrote a note to Gay, telling him the Master had died at 7.20 that night, explaining that it was Gay’s duty to call a meeting the following day, telling him that the business was purely formal and a meeting at the usual time need only take ten minutes. ‘If you feel it is too dangerous to come down to college in this weather,’ Despard-Smith added, ‘send me a note in reply to this and we will see the necessary steps are taken.’
The head porter was called into the combination room, and asked to take the letter to Gay’s house. He was told to see that it reached Gay’s hands at once, whether he was in bed or not, and to bring back a reply.
I went off to see Roy Calvert: the others stayed in the combination room, waiting for Gay’s reply.
The night was starless and a cold rain was spattering down. As I looked round the court, I felt one corner was strangely dark. No light shone from the bedroom window of the Lodge.
I found Roy alone, sitting at his table with one of the last pages of the proofs.
‘You know, of course?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Roy. ‘I can’t be sorry for him. He must have gone out without knowing it. But it’s the others who have to face what death means now, haven’t they?’
Soon Joan came into the room, and he had to devote himself to her and her mother.
I returned to the combination room, where Brown, Winslow, and Despard-Smith were still waiting.
‘It is nothing less than a disaster,’ Despard-Smith was saying, ‘that our statutes entrust these duties to the senior fellow.’ He proceeded to expound the advantages of a permanent vice-master, such as some colleges had; from Winslow’s expression, I guessed this ground had been covered several times already.
Before long the head porter arrived, his top hat tarnished from the rain. He handed Despard-Smith a large envelope, which bore on the back a large red blob of sealing-wax.
‘Did you find Professor Gay up?’ asked Brown.
‘Certainly, sir.’
I wondered if there was the faintest subterranean flicker behind that disciplined face.
Despard-Smith read the reply with a bleak frown. ‘This confirms me in my view,’ he said, and passed the letter to us. It was written in a good strong nineteenth-century hand, and read:
Dear Despard,
Your news was not unexpected, but nevertheless I grieve for poor Royce and his family. He is the fifth Master who has been taken from us since I became a fellow.
I am, of course, absolutely capable of fulfilling the duties prescribed to me by statute, and I cannot even consider asking the college to exempt me from them. It was not necessary for you to remind me of the statute, my dear chap, nor to send me a copy of the statutes: during the last weeks I have regularly refreshed my memory of them, and am now confident of being able to master my duties.
I do not share your opinion that tomorrow’s proceedings are purely formal. I think that such a meeting would not show sufficient respect for our late Master. However, I concur that the meeting need not detain us overlong, and I therefore request that it be called for 4.45 p.m. I have never seen the virtue of our present hour of 4.30 p.m. I request also that tea be served as usual at 4.0 p.m.
Yours ever,
M H L Gay
‘The old man is asserting himself,’ said Brown. ‘Well, there’s nothing for it but to obey orders.’
Next afternoon most of the society, apart from Gay, arrived later than usual for tea in the combination room. They ate less and talked more quietly. Yet most of them were quiet through decorum, not through grief. The night before, there had been a pang of feeling through many there; but grief for an acquaintance cannot last long, the egotisms of healthy men revive so quickly that they can never admit it, and so put on decorum together with their black ties and act gravely in front of each other. All the fellows were present but Pilbrow; but only three bore the marks of strain that afternoon.
There was Chrystal, brusque and harsh so that people avoided his company; Roy Calvert, who had dark pouches under his eyes after a night in the Lodge; Jago, whose face looked at its most ravaged.
Even of those, I thought, Jago was tormented by anxiety and hope. Perhaps only two mourned Royce enough to forget the excitement round them.
At half-past four many of us began to sit down in our places, but Gay finished his tea at leisure, talking loudly to anyone near. The clock struck the quarter before he said: ‘Ah. The time I fixed for our meeting. Let us make a start. Yes, this is the time.’
He took the chair, and looked round at us. The hum died away. Then slowly and with difficulty Gay rose unstably to his feet, and supported himself by gripping the table with his hands.
‘Remain seated, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But I should like to stand, while I speak of what I have summoned you to hear today.’ He looked handsome and impressive; his beard was freshly trimmed, it took years from his age to be presiding there that day. ‘I have grievous news. Indeed I have grievous news. Yesterday evening our late Master passed away. In accordance with the statute I have requested you to meet on this the following day. First I wish to say a few words in honour of his memory.’ Gay went on to make a speech lasting over half an hour. His voice rang out resonantly; he did not seem in the least tired. Actually, it was a good speech. Once or twice his memory failed him and he attributed to Royce qualities and incidents which belonged to earlier Masters. But that happened seldom; his powers had revived that afternoon; he was an eloquent man who enjoyed speaking, and he remembered much about Royce which was fresh to many of us. The uncomfortable nature of the speech was that he made it with such tremendous gusto; he was enjoying himself too much.
‘And so,’ he finished, ‘he was stricken with the disease, which, as my old saga-men would say, was his bane. Ah indeed, it was his bane. He bore it as valiantly as they would have borne it. He had indeed one consolation not granted to many of them. He died in the certainty of our Christian faith, and his life was so blessed that he did not need to fear his judgement in the hereafter.’
Then Gay let himself back into his chair. There was whispering round the table, and he banged energetically with his fist.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said briskly and chidingly, ‘we must set ourselves to our task. We cannot look back always. We must look forward. Forward! That’s the place to look. It is part of my duties to make arrangements for the election of a new Master. I will read the statutes.’
He did read the statutes, not only that on the election of the Master, which he kept till last, but also those on the authority, qualifications, residence, and emoluments. He
read very audibly and well, and a good many more minutes passed. At last he came to the statute on the election. He read very slowly and with enormous emphasis. ‘“When the fellows are duly assembled the fellow first in order of precedence attending shall announce to them the vacancy…”’ He looked up from his book, and paused.
‘I hereby announce to you,’ said Gay resoundingly, ‘a vacancy in the office of Master.’
He went back to his reading ‘“…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.”’
‘Cause to be placed! Cause to be placed!’ cried Gay. ‘I shall fix it myself. I shall certainly fix it myself. Shall I write the notice?’
‘I’ve got one here,’ said Winslow. ‘I had it typed ready in the Bursary this morning.’
‘Ah. I congratulate you. Let me read it. I can’t get out of the responsibility for any slips, you know. “Owing to the death of Mr Vernon Royce, there is a vacancy in the office of Master of this college. The fellows will meet in the chapel to elect a Master, according to statutes D – F, at ten o’clock in the morning of December the twentieth, 1937.”
‘That seems fair enough,’ Gay went on, as though unwilling to pass it. ‘December the twentieth? No one’s made a slip there, I suppose?’
‘The vacancy occurred in term,’ said Winslow impatiently. ‘It is fifteen days from today.’
‘Indeed. Indeed. Well, it seems fair enough. Does everyone understand? Shall I sign it?’
‘Is that necessary?’ said Despard-Smith. ‘It’s not in the statutes.’
‘It’s fitting that I should sign it,’ said Gay. ‘When people see my signature at the bottom, they won’t doubt that everything is in order. I shall certainly sign it.’