by C. P. Snow
He was grimly indignant. We told him what we had each promised. ‘I was glad to do it,’ I said. ‘I should enjoy voting for you. It would be admirable to see you in the Lodge.’
He did not respond. After a time he said: ‘I suppose you all intended it kindly.’
‘I don’t know about kindly,’ I said. ‘It was intended to show what we feel about you.’
‘I hope you all intended it kindly,’ said Brown.
‘Chrystal wanted the chance to say you ought to be Master,’ said Roy.
‘So he told me.’
‘It’s quite true.’
‘It should have been obvious to him that I could not conceivably be a candidate in these circumstances,’ said Brown. ‘The only result of my name being mentioned is to stand in Jago’s light. It can only mean dissensions in Jago’s party and no responsible man can see it otherwise. I am very sorry that Chrystal should have seen fit to use my name for that purpose. And I am obliged to tell you that I am sorry you two associated yourselves with it.’
‘You ought to believe that we mean what we say,’ I replied.
‘I realize you didn’t mind paying me a compliment,’ said Brown, as though making an effort to be fair. ‘What I can’t make out is how anyone as astute as you can have lost your head and behaved in this irresponsible fashion. Surely you can see that nothing is gained by paying useless compliments when things are as delicate as they are now, three days away from the event. It is nothing more nor less than playing into the hands of the other side. It looks as though I was being made a tool of.’
‘Have you told Chrystal?’
‘I have. I’m not prepared to have people think that I’m being made a tool of.’
I had never seen him so completely shaken out of reason and tolerance and charity – not even when Pilbrow defected. His whole picture of ‘decent behaviour’ had been thrown aside. He liked to think of himself as the manager of the college, the power behind the meetings; but, as I had often noticed, as for instance in the first approach to Luke, he was always scrupulous in keeping within the rules; he was not easy unless he was well thought of and in good repute. It upset him to imagine that people were not thinking that he had planned an intrigue with his friend, so as to get in as a last-minute compromise. It upset him equally if they thought he was just a cats-paw. In the end, he had an overwhelmingly strong sense of his own proper dignity and of the behaviour he wanted the world to see.
He was also, of course, the most realistic of men: he saw the position with clear eyes, and it made him angrier still with Chrystal. He knew very well that he was not being offered even a remote chance: he felt he was just being asked to save Chrystal’s conscience. And that was the most maddening of his thoughts: that was the one which made him come and reproach Roy and me as though he could not forgive us. For Brown could see – no one more sharply – the conflict, vacillation, temptation, and gathering purpose of his friend. He could not control him now; for the first time in twenty years he found his own will being crossed by Chrystal. Chrystal might do more yet: in moments of foresight Brown could see the worst of ends. When Chrystal came to him with this gesture, Brown felt that he had lost.
He went away without any softening towards Roy or me, telling us that he must write round to each fellow, in order to say that in no circumstances would he let his name be considered. I suspected that he had shown his anger more nakedly to us than to Chrystal. He had controlled himself with Chrystal – then had to come and take it out of us.
As soon as he had gone, Roy looked at me.
‘Old boy,’ he said, ‘I fancy Jago’s dished.’
‘Yes.’
‘We need to do what we can. If we can entice someone over, we might save it.’
We decided to try Despard-Smith and Pilbrow that same day, and went together to Pilbrow’s rooms after tea. We had no success at all. Roy used all his blandishments, the blandishments which came to him by nature, but which he could also use by art. He was as lively and varied as he was to women, in turns teasing, serious, attentive, flattering, mocking. He invited Pilbrow to visit him in Berlin in the spring. Pilbrow enjoyed the performance, he liked handsome young men, but he did not give a foot: it seemed to him impossible now to vote for anyone but Crawford. I took up the political argument, Roy lapped the old man with all his tricks of charm. But we got nowhere, except that he pressed us both to dine with an exiled writer in London, the night after the election.
We walked through the court. Roy was grinning at his own expense.
‘I’ve lost face,’ he said.
‘You’re getting old,’ I said.
‘You’d better try Despard by yourself,’ said Roy. ‘If I can’t get off with old Eustace, I’m damned if I can with Despard.’
It was a fact that Despard-Smith looked on him with mystified suspicion, and so after hall I went alone. Despard-Smith’s rooms were in the third court, on the next staircase to Nightingale’s and near Jago’s house. He had not been to hall that night, and on the chest outside the door lay the dishes of a meal sent up from the kitchen. His outer door was not closed, but there was no one in his main room, and the fire had gone out. I tapped on the inside door: there was a gruff shout ‘who’s there?’ When I answered, no reply came for some while: then there were movements inside, and a key turned in the lock. Despard-Smith looked out at me with bloodshot, angry eyes.
‘I’m very busy. I’m very busy, Eliot.’
‘I only want to keep you five minutes.’
‘You don’t realize how busy I am. People here have never shown me the slightest consideration.’
His breath smelt of liquor; instead of being solemn, grave, minatory, he was just angry.
‘I should like a word about the election,’ I said. He glared at me. ‘You’d better come in for two minutes,’ he said in a grating tone.
His inner room was dark, over-furnished by the standards of the twentieth century, packed with cupboards, tables, glass-fronted cases full of collections of pottery. Photographs, many of them of the undergraduates of his youth, in boaters and wearing large moustaches, hung all over the walls. By his old armchair, which had projecting headrests, stood a table covered with green baize, and on the table were a book and an empty tumbler. Bleakly he said: ‘Can I offer you a n-nightcap?’ and opened a cupboard by the fireplace. I had a glimpse of a great array of empty whisky bottles; he brought out one half-full and another glass.
He poured me a small whisky and himself a very large one, and he took a long gulp while we were still standing up.
He was not drunk but he was inflamed by drink. There had been rumours for years that he drank heavily in private, but he had no friends in college, his life was lonely, no one knew for certain how he lived it. Gossip had a knack of not touching him closely; perhaps he was too spare and harsh a figure to be talked about much. His natural authority seemed to protect him, even in his absence.
‘I wondered if you were happy about the election,’ I said.
‘Certainly not,’ said Despard-Smith. ‘I take an extremely grave view of the future of this college.’
‘It isn’t too late–’ I began.
‘It has been too late for many years,’ said Despard-Smith ominously.
I said something about Crawford and Jago, and for a moment my hopes sprang up at his reply.
‘Jago has sacrificed himself for the college, Eliot. Just as every college officer has to. Whereas Crawford has not sacrificed himself, he has become a distinguished man of science. On academic grounds his election will do us good in the outside world. I needn’t say that I’ve always been seriously disturbed at the prospect of electing a bolshevik.’
I had not time to be amused by that term for Crawford, the sturdy middle-class scientific liberal: I had seized on the gleam of hope, was forcing the comparison between the two, when Despard-Smith brushed my question aside, and stared at me with fierce bloodshot eyes.
‘The college has brought it upon itself,’ he said. ‘They’ve cho
sen not to pay attention to my warnings, and they can only expect disastrous consequences. They did it with their eyes open when they chose Royce. That was the f-first step down the slippery slope.’ He put a finger inside his dog collar and then took it out with a click. He said in a grating, accusing tone: ‘They ought to have asked me to take on the burden. They said I wasn’t known outside the college. That was the thanks I got for sacrificing myself for thirty years.’
I said a word or two, but he emptied his glass and faced me with greater anger still.
‘I’ve had a disappointing life, Eliot,’ he said. ‘It’s not been a happy life. I’ve not been given the recognition I had a right to expect. It’s a scandalous story. It would not be to the credit of this college if I let everyone know how I’d been treated. I’m looking back on my life now, and I tell you that it’s been one long disappointment. And I lay it all to the blame of the people here.’
From another man, the cry might have been softened by pathos. But there was nothing soft about Despard-Smith at seventy, drinking in secret, attacking me with his disappointment. ‘I’ve had a disappointing life’: he did not say it with the sad warmth of self-pity, but aggressively, certain that he was in the right.
‘You’re going to let them elect Crawford now?’ I said.
‘They ought to have asked me to take on the burden ten years ago. I tell you, this college would have been a different place.’
‘Wouldn’t Jago be more likely to take your line?’
‘He’s done better as Tutor than I bargained for,’ said Despard-Smith. ‘But he’s got no head for affairs.’
‘That needn’t rule him out–’
‘Royce had no head for affairs, and they chose him,’ said Despard-Smith.
‘I’m still surprised you should vote for Crawford.’
‘He’s made a name for himself. That’s good enough for a Master. They wouldn’t choose me because I wasn’t known outside the college. Crawford will do. No one can deny that he will do. And if people don’t like him when they’ve got him,’ he said, ‘well, they’ll have to l-lump it for the next fifteen years.’
He fetched out the bottle again and poured himself another drink. This time he did not offer me any. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Eliot, that I’ve got a soft spot for Jago. If I were voting on personal grounds, I would choose him before the other man. But the other man has made his name. And Jago hasn’t. He’s sacrificed himself for the college. If a man takes a college office, he makes a disastrous choice. He can’t expect people to recognize him. Jago ought to be prepared to face the consequences of his sacrifice. He ought to know what happened to me.’
My hope had faded. At last I understood something of why he had stuck to Crawford from the beginning – Crawford, the ‘bolshevik’. Despard-Smith had loved power so much in his austere fashion: it thickened the blood in his veins. He had loved his years as bursar, he had done what pleased him most, even though he believed that he was ‘sacrificing himself’. But it rankled still that they had not made him Master. It seemed to have struck him as a surprise, as a physical shock. I wondered whether it was from those days, ten years ago, that he started his solitary evenings with the whisky bottle.
Unluckily for Jago, the old man saw in him his own misfortune re-created. He did like Jago; he was starved of affection, he was not without the power to enjoy friendship, though he could not take the first steps himself. But seeing that Jago might retrace his old distress, Despard-Smith wished simply and starkly that it should happen so. He wished it more because he liked the man. It was right that Jago should sacrifice himself. He thought of his own ‘disappointing life’. He thought of Jago, treated as he had been. And he felt a tinge of sadistic warmth.
41: Two Cigars in the Combination Room
There was nothing to do but wait. Both Roy and I had a sense of the end now, but we were tantalized by a fluctuating hope. On paper (if Gay did not fail us) we could still count a majority for Jago. If it were to be broken, we must get news at any hour. It could not be long. What was Chrystal doing, now that even he had to abandon the notion of a third candidate? He had to face the struggle of Jago and Crawford again. No news seemed good news. Throughout the morning of December 18th, forty-eight hours from the election, throughout that whole day, we heard nothing. I did not see either Chrystal or Brown, although Brown’s letter arrived. It was much more mellifluous and stately than his outburst in the flesh, and said that ‘though any member of the college ought to be honoured even to have his name mentioned as a possible candidate for the Mastership, I must after prolonged consideration and with many expressions of thanks ask my friends and colleagues to permit me to withdraw.’
That was all the news that day. It seemed that bargainings and confidential talks had ceased.
In the evening Jago came to my room.
‘Have you heard anything fresh?’ His tone was jaunty, but under his eyes the skin was stained and dry.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘I want you to tell me anything you know. The very moment it happens,’ he said, menacing me with the force of his anxiety. ‘This is a bad enough business without having to wonder whether one’s friends are keeping anything back.’
‘I’ll keep nothing back,’ I promised.
‘I must be an unendurable nuisance to you.’ He smiled. ‘So there really isn’t any news? When I lay awake last night, I thought of all the absolutely inexplicable things I had watched the college do–’
‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘Never mind,’ said Jago. ‘I shall sleep in a couple of nights. So good old Arthur Brown wasn’t prepared to be made a convenience of. That takes us back where we started. They really have got to make the bizarre choice between me and my opponent. And nothing has happened to upset the balance, so far as you know?’
His moods were not stable, he was strained and expectant, fervent and hostile, at odd moments sarcastically detached, all in the same excitement of the nerves. Above all, his optimism had not left him. To his wife I was certain he maintained that he would get in. Some men would have defended themselves by saying that they expected the worst. Jago in his proud and reckless spirit was not able to protect himself by such a dodge. There was something nakedly defenceless about his optimism. He seemed quite without the armour, the thickening of the skin, that most men take on insensibly as the years pass.
I wanted to guard him, but he resisted the slightest word of doubt. He listened and thanked me, but his eyes were flashing with an excitement that I could not touch. He knew very little about what had happened at the meeting in Chrystal’s room, and even less about the cumulative disagreement between Brown and Chrystal. He did not want to know of it. That evening he still had hope, and as he lay sleepless through the long night to come it would steady his heart.
We went in the combination room together before hall; there were several men already waiting, but no one spoke. The constraint took hold of us like a field of force. Despard-Smith was there, Francis Getliffe, Nightingale, Roy Calvert. It was not that they had been talking of Jago, and were embarrassed to see him. It was not the constraint of a conversation left in the air – but simply the paralysing weight that comes upon men at a late stage of their struggle. Even Roy’s sparkle was borne down under it. When we took our places in hall, there was still almost no word spoken. Despard-Smith sat at our head, solemnly asking for toast, muted and grave by contrast to the inflamed old man of the night before.
Then Luke bustled in late. He hurled himself into the seat next Roy Calvert’s, and swallowed a plate of soup at an enormous pace. He looked up and smiled round at us indiscriminately – at me, at Francis, at Nightingale. I had never seen a face more radiant with joy. One did not notice the pleasant youthful features: all one saw was this absolute, certain and effulgent happiness, and it warmed one to the bottom of the heart.
‘Well?’ I could not resist smiling broadly back.
‘I’ve got it out! I know for sure I’ve got it out!’
; ‘Which part of it?’ said Francis Getliffe.
‘The whole damned caboodle. The whole bloody beautiful bag of tricks. I’ve got the answer to the slow neutron business, Getliffe. It’s all just come tumbling out.’
‘Are you certain?’ asked Francis, unwilling to believe it.
‘Of course I’m certain. Do you think I’d stick my neck out like this if I weren’t certain It’s as plain as the palm of my hand.’
Francis cross-questioned him, and for minutes the technical words rapped across the table – ‘neutrons’, ‘collision’, ‘stopping power’, ‘alphas’. Francis was frowning, envious despite himself, more eager to find a hole than to be convinced that Luke was right. But Luke was unperturbed, all faces were friendly on this day of certain joy; he gave his explanations at a great speed, fired in his homely figures of speech, was too exalted to keep back his cheerful swear words; yet even a layman came to feel how clear and masterful he was in everything he said. Gradually, as though reluctantly, Francis’ frown left his face, and there came instead his deep, creased smile. He was seeing something that compelled his admiration. His own talent was strong enough to make him respond; this was a major work, and for a moment he was disinterested, keen with admiration, smiling an experienced and applauding smile.
‘Good work!’ he cried. ‘Lord, it’s nice work. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard for a long time.’
‘It’s pretty good,’ said Luke, unashamed, with no pretence of modesty though his cheeks were flushing scarlet.
‘I believe it’s wonderful,’ said Jago, who had been listening with intent interest, as though he could drown his anxieties in this young man’s joy. ‘Not that I understand most of your detestable words. But you do tell us that he has done something remarkable, don’t you, Getliffe?’
‘It’s beautiful work,’ said Francis with great authority.
‘I’m more glad than I can say,’ said Jago to Luke. Nightingale had turned his head away and was looking down the hall.