The Masters

30: Jago Thinks of Himself as a Young Man

The funeral was arranged for December 8th, and in the days before a sombre truce came over the college. Full term ended on the 7th, and the undergraduates climbed Brown’s stairs to fetch their exeats, walked through the courts to Jago’s house, more quietly than usual; even the scholarship candidates, who came up that day, were greeted by the hush as soon as they asked a question at the porters’ lodge. On the nights of the 5th and 6th, the two nights which followed Gay’s meeting, I did not hear a word spoken about the Mastership. Chrystal was busy arranging for a fellows’ wreath, to add to those we were each sending as individuals; Despard-Smith was talking solemnly about the form of service; there was no wine drunk. Roy Calvert did not dine either night; he was looking after Lady Muriel, and she liked having him eat and sleep in the Lodge.

On the afternoon of the 7th, I wanted to escape from the college for a time and went for a walk alone. It was a dark and lowering day, very warm for December; lights were coming on in the shop windows, a slight rain was blown on the gusty wind, the wind blew down the streets as though they were organ-pipes, umbrellas were bent to meet it.

I walked over Coe Fen to the Grantchester meadows, and on by the bank of the river. There was no one about, the afternoon was turning darker; a single swan moved on the water, and the flat fields were desolate. I was glad to return to the lighted streets and the gas flares in Peas Hill, all spurting furiously in the wind.

While I was looking at the stalls under the gas flares, I heard a voice behind me say: ‘Good Lord, it’s you. What are you doing out on this filthy day?’

Jago was smiling, but his face was so drawn that one forgot the heavy flesh.

‘I’ve been for a walk,’ I said.

‘So have I,’ said Jago. ‘I’ve been trying to think straight.’

We walked together towards the college. After a moment’s silence, Jago broke out: ‘Would it be a nuisance if I begged a cup of tea in your rooms?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’ve been trying to collect my thoughts,’ he smiled, ‘and it’s not a specially pleasant process. It hurts my wife to see me, very naturally. If I inflict myself on you, you won’t mind too much, will you?’

‘Come for as long as you like,’ I said.

In the first court, Brown’s windows gleamed out of the dusk, but on the other side of the court the Lodge was dark behind drawn blinds.

‘It is very hard to accept that he is dead,’ said Jago.

We went up to my sitting-room, I ordered tea. And then I asked, feeling it kindest to be direct.

‘You must be worrying about the election now?’

‘Intolerably,’ said Jago.

‘You couldn’t help it,’ I said.

‘I should be on better terms with myself if I could.’

‘You wouldn’t be human,’ I said.

‘I haven’t been able to forget it for an instant this afternoon. I went out to clear my head. I couldn’t put it aside for an instant, Eliot. So I’ve been trying to think it out.’

‘What have you been trying to think out?’

‘How much it means to me.’

He burst out: ‘And I’m quite lost, Eliot, I don’t know where I am.’ He looked at me in a manner naive, piercing, and confiding. ‘I can tell you what I shouldn’t like to tell Chrystal and good old Arthur Brown. There are times when it seems absolutely meaningless. I’m disgusted with myself for getting so excited about something that doesn’t matter in the slightest. There are times when I’d give anything to run away from it altogether.’

‘And those times are when—’

Jago smiled painfully: ‘When it seems quite certain I shall get it,’ he said. ‘Often I feel quite certain. Sometimes I think it will be taken from me at the last. Whenever I think that,’ he added, ‘I want it more than anything in the world. You see, I’ve no use for myself at all.’

‘I should be the same,’ I said.

‘Should you? Do you really know what it is to have no use for yourself?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said.

‘You seem more sensible than I am,’ said Jago. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t want so badly to run away from it altogether.’

‘Perhaps not,’ I said.

‘Chrystal ought to be standing himself. He would have enjoyed it,’ said Jago with a tired and contemptuous shrug.

I was thinking: it was the core of diffidence and pride flaming out again. He would have liked, even now, to escape from the contest. He told himself ‘it did not matter in the slightest’. He assured himself of that, because he could not bear to fail. Then again he revolted from the humiliations he had consented to, in order to gain an end that was beneath him. He had been civil to Nightingale, for months he had submitted himself to Chrystal’s lead. He had just revealed something I had already guessed, something I believed that had worried Arthur Brown all along. Jago had always been far away from Chrystal. In the course of nature, as Chrystal ran the campaign, Jago liked him less. He came to think that Chrystal was a soulless power-crazed businessman, and it irked him to bow: his temper over the candidates’ vote had been an outburst of defiance. Yet even that night he had been forced to retract, he could not bear to ruin his chances, he needed this place more even than he needed his pride.

‘We must get it for you,’ I said, with a feeling I had never had for him before.

There was a pause. Jago said: ‘I think I want it more than anything in the world.’

‘It’s strange,’ he added in a moment. ‘It’s extremely strange. When I was a young man, Eliot, I was ambitious. I wanted everything that a man can want. I wanted honour, riches and the love of women. Yes, I was ambitious. I’ve suffered through it. And now this is what I have come to want. It can’t be long now—’

He passed on to talk, with a curious content, of some appointments he would make as Master. He was enjoying in advance the pleasure of patronage: in his imagination the future was golden: for he pictured the college in years to come looking back upon his reign — ‘the greatest of our Masters’. Then that vision left him. He glanced at me almost fiercely and said: ‘You’ll be surprised how splendid my wife will turn out in the Lodge. She always rises to the occasion. I couldn’t bear to lose it now, on her account. She’s looking forward to it so much.’

I felt he wanted to say more about her, but he could not manage it. It had been a relief to talk of his ambition; perhaps it would have been a greater relief to let someone see into his marriage. But it was impossible. Certainly with me, a friendly acquaintance, a supporter, a much younger man. I believed that it would have been impossible with anyone. I believed he had never laid bare his heart about her. He had many friendly acquaintances, but, despite his warmth and candour, he seemed to have no intimate friends. I had the impression that he had not spoken even of his ambition so nakedly before.

Over tea, though he could not confide about his own marriage, he talked of one that would never happen. He had seen that Joan Royce longed to marry Roy. Jago switched from that one challenging remark about his wife to talk of them. Perhaps the switch showed what he was feeling in the depth of his heart. She ought to have been right for Roy, said Jago. Jago had once hoped that she would be. But she simply was not. And so it would be madness for Roy to marry her. No one outside can tell who is right for one. There are no rules. One knows it without help. Sometimes the rest of the world thinks one is wrong, but they cannot know.

Then his thoughts came back to himself. December 20th.

‘It can’t be long now,’ he said.

‘Thirteen days.’

‘Each day is a long time,’ said Jago.

Next afternoon, the bell tolled and the chapel filled up for the funeral. Lady Muriel and Joan sat in the front rows with their backs like pokers, not a tear on their faces, true to their Spartan training: they would not show a sign of grief in public and it was only with Roy that they broke down. All the fellows attended but Pilbrow, from whom there was still no news; even Winslow came into the chapel, for the first time since Royce’s election. Many of the heads of other colleges were there, all the seven professors of divinity, most of the orientalists and theologians in the university; and also a few men who went by habit from college to college for each funeral.

The wind had dropped, but the skies were low outside and a steady rain fell all day. Every light in the chapel was burning, and as they entered people blinked their eyes after the sombre daylight. The flowers on the coffin smelt sweet and sickly. There was a heavy quiet even when the chapel was packed.

Despard-Smith recited the service, and Gay, less dispirited than anyone there, chanted his responses with lusty vigour. ‘Lord, have mercy upon us,’ cried Despard-Smith: and I could distinguish Roy Calvert’s voice, light, reedy, and abnormally clear, as he said Amen.

Despard-Smith put into the service an eulogy of Royce. On the night the news of the death came to the combination room, Despard-Smith had spoken simply and without thinking: ‘he was a very human man’. But by now he had had time to think, and he pronounced the same praise as he had done so often. ‘Our first thoughts must go to his family in their affliction… Greater as their loss must be, we his colleagues know ours to be so catastrophic that only our faith can give us hope of building up this society again. We chiefly mourn this day, not the Master whom we all venerated, not the leader in scholarship who devoted all his life to searching for truth, but the kind and faithful friend. Many of us have had the blessing of his friendship for a lifetime. We know that no one ever turned to him for help in vain; no one ever found him to hold malice in his heart or any kind of uncharitableness; no one even believed he was capable of entertaining an unkind thought, or heard him utter an unkind word.’

I glanced at Roy. He had loved Royce: his eyes lost their sadness for a second as he heard that last singular piece of praise; there was the faint twitch of a smile on his lips.

In the even and unfaltering rain, a cavalcade of taxis rolled out to a cemetery in the suburbs, rolled past the lodging houses of Maid’s Causeway, the blank street front of the Newmarket Road. The fellows were allotted to taxis in order of seniority: Francis Getliffe, Roy Calvert, Luke and I shared the last. None of us spoke much, the heaviness rested on us, we gazed out of the streaming windows.

At the cemetery, we stood under umbrellas round the grave. Despard-Smith spoke the last words, and the earth rattled on the coffin.

We drove back, more quickly now, in the same group. The rain still pelted down without a break, but we all felt an inexplicably strong relief. We chatted with comfort, sometimes with animation: Francis Getliffe and Roy, who rarely had much to say to each other, exchanged a joke about Katherine’s father. There were wild spirits latent in each of us just then, if our conventions had given us any excuse. As it was, when the taxis drew up at the college, knots of fellows stood in the shelter of the great gate. The same pulse of energy was passing round. I expected one result to be that the truce would be broken by dinner time that night.

31: ‘A Good Day for the College’

Actually, it took twenty-four hours for the truce to break in earnest. Then a rumour went round that Nightingale had threatened to ‘speak out’. It was certainly true that Francis Getliffe spent the afternoon arguing with Luke; I heard of the conversation from Luke himself, who could not bear to be separated for an hour from his work just then. His fresh skin had lost most of its colour, there were rings under his eyes, and he said angrily: ‘You’d have thought Getliffe was the last man in the bloody place to keep anyone away from the lab — just when the whole box of tricks may be tumbling out.’

‘You look tired,’ I said.

‘I’m not too tired to work,’ he retorted.

‘What did you tell Getliffe?’

‘Everyone else in this blasted college may change their minds twice a week,’ said young Luke, who was frantic with hope, who had anyway given up being tactful with me. ‘But I bloody well don’t.’

Francis’ attempt was fair enough, and so was another by Winslow to persuade me. Neither caused any comment, in contrast to a ‘flysheet’ which Nightingale circulated to each fellow on December 10th. In the flysheet Nightingale put down a list of Crawford’s claims to the Mastership, and ended with the sentence: ‘Mrs Crawford appears to many members of the college to be well fitted for the position of Master’s wife. This is not necessarily true of a candidate’s wife, and they attach great weight to this consideration.’

He said no more, but I was stopped in the court several times between lunch and dinner: — was this Nightingale’s final shot? was he going further? I was ready for an open scene in hall that night. Roy Calvert and I were the only members of Jago’s party dining, and Nightingale, Winslow, and Despard-Smith were sitting together. I had braced myself to take the offensive — when Jago, who had not come into hall since the Master’s death, walked in after the grace. Nightingale seemed to be waiting for a burst of fury, but there was none. Jago sat through the dinner talking quietly to me and Roy. Occasionally he spoke a civil word to Despard-Smith and Winslow. Nightingale he had come there to ignore, and not a word was spoken about the Mastership, either in hall or in the combination room.

As I was having breakfast next morning, December 11th, Brown came in, pink and businesslike.

‘I’ve been wondering whether to answer Nightingale’s latest effort,’ he said, sitting in the window seat. ‘But I’m rather inclined to leave it alone. Any reply is only likely to make bad worse. And I’ve got a sneaking hope that, now he’s started putting things on paper, he may possibly give us something to take hold of. I did sketch out a letter, but I had last minute qualms. I don’t like it, but it’s wise to leave things as they are.’

‘How are they?’ I asked.

‘I won’t pretend to you that I’m entirely comfortable,’ said Brown. ‘Though mind you it’s necessary for both of us to pretend to the other side. And perhaps’ — he looked at me — ‘it’s even more necessary to pretend to our own. But, between ourselves, things aren’t panning out as they should. I haven’t had a reply from Eustace Pilbrow. I sent off cables to every possible address within an hour after poor Royce died. And I sent off another batch yesterday. I shall believe Pilbrow is coming back to vote when I see him walking through the gate.’ He went on: ‘I had another disappointment last night. I went round with Chrystal to make another try to lobby old Gay. Well, we didn’t get any distance at all. The old boy is perfectly well up to it, but he won’t talk about anything except his responsibility for presiding over the college during the present period. He read the statutes to us again. But we didn’t begin to get anywhere.’

‘I wish you’d taken me,’ I said sharply.

‘I very much wanted to take Chrystal,’ said Brown. He saw that I was annoyed (for I did not believe they had ever been good at flattering Gay), and he spoke more frankly about his friend than at any time before. ‘I feel it’s a good idea to — keep up his interest in our campaign. He’s never been quite as enthusiastic as I should like. I have had to take it into account that he’s inclined to be temperamental.’

The telephone bell rang. Was Mr Brown with me? Mr Chrystal was trying to trace him urgently. Brown offered to go to Chrystal’s rooms; no, the Dean was already on his way up to mine.

Chrystal entered briskly, his eyes alight with purpose and the sense of action.

‘It’s a good day for the college,’ he said at once.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Brown, quick and suspicious.

‘I don’t think I’m entitled to say much more till this afternoon,’ said Chrystal. He was revelling in this secret. ‘But I can tell you that Despard-Smith received a letter from Sir Horace by the first post today. It’s very satisfactory, and that’s putting it mildly. There’s one thing that’s a bit cranky, but you’ll hear for yourselves soon enough. I’d like to tell you the whole story, but Despard showed me the letter in confidence.’

‘It sounds perfectly splendid,’ said Brown.

‘Despard didn’t see how we could do anything about it until we’d elected a Master. But I insisted that it would be lamentable to hold back the news of something as big as this,’ Chrystal said. ‘I had to tell Despard straight out that I wasn’t prepared to let that happen. If he wouldn’t summon an informal meeting himself, I would do it off my own bat.’

Brown smiled affably at his friend’s brisk triumphant air.

‘Wonderful,’ he said again.

‘That’s how we left it. I’ve got the college office running round to get hold of people for this afternoon. It shocked old Despard too much to think of having an informal meeting in the combination room.’ Chrystal gave a tough grin. ‘So it will be in my rooms. I’ve called it for 2.30. I tell you, Arthur, we’ve done something between us. It’s a good day for the college.’

When I arrived in Chrystal’s sitting-room that afternoon it was already arranged to seat the fellows, with a dozen chairs round the dining table. Ten men turned up by half-past two; Luke had gone early to the laboratory, did not return for lunch, and so no message had reached him; Gay was not there, and I suspected that Chrystal had taken care that that invitation had miscarried. We sat down round the table, all except Chrystal, who stood watching us, like a commanding officer.

‘It’s time we began,’ he said. ‘I move Mr Despard-Smith take the chair.’

Brown seconded, and there was a murmur, but Despard-Smith said: ‘I ought to say that I consider this meeting is definitely irregular. I find myself in a dilemma. It would be scandalous not to let the college know as soon as I properly can of a communication which I received this morning. On the other hand I cannot conceal from myself that the communication was sent to me under the misunderstanding that I still had the status of Deputy for the Master. I do not see the way clear for the college to receive an official communication during the dies non while there is a vacancy in the office of Master. I see grave difficulties whatever view we decide upon.’

At last, Despard-Smith was persuaded to take the chair (which, as Roy whispered, he had been determined to do all the time). He began: ‘The least irregular course open to us in my judgement is for me to disclose to you in confidence the contents of the communication I received this morning. I am p-positive that we cannot reply except to explain that I am no longer Deputy but that the letter will be laid before the new Master as soon as he is elected. Very well. The communication is from Sir Horace Timberlake, who I believe is a relative of one of our recent men. It will ultimately call for some very difficult decisions by the college, but perhaps I had better read it.

Dear Mr Deputy,

During the past year I have had many interesting talks upon the future of the college. I have had the privilege in particular of hearing the views of Dr Jago—’ (I wondered for a second if Sir Horace had timed his letter to assist Jago in the election; he was quite capable of it) ‘and frequently those of Mr Brown and Mr Chrystal. I should like to add my own small share to helping the college, feeling as I do its invaluable benefits to my nephew and the great part I can see it playing in the world. I am clear that the most useful assistance anyone can give the college at the present time is the endowment of fellowships, and I am clear that a substantial proportion should be restricted to scientific and engineering subjects. I wish to lay the minimum conditions upon the college, but I should not be living up to my own ideas of the future if I did not ask you to accept this stipulation. If the college can see its way to agree, I should be honoured to transfer to you a capital sum of £120,000–’ (there was a whistle from someone at the table) ‘which I take to be the equivalent to the endowment of six fellowships. This capital sum will be made over in seven equal yearly instalments, until the entire endowment is in your hands by 1944. Four of these six fellowships are to be limited to scientific and engineering subjects and one is to be held in any subject that the college thinks fit. You will appreciate that this letter is not a formal offer and I shall crystallize my ideas further if I learn that the general scheme is acceptable to the college. I shall also be able to crystallize my ideas about the one remaining fellowship which I hope to designate for a special purpose.’ I saw some puzzled frowns and could not imagine what was coming. ‘The best way to make a contribution to my purpose has not yet presented itself to me, but I am desirous of using this fellowship to help in the wonderful work of—’ Despard-Smith read solemnly — ‘Mr Roy Calvert, by which I was so tremendously impressed. Possibly his work could be aided by a fellowship on special terms, but no doubt we can pursue these possibilities together. I am not sufficiently conversant with your customs to know whether you attach distinguishing titles to your endowments, and I should not wish in any case even to express a view on such a delicate topic.’

Someone whistled again as Despard-Smith finished. There were glances at Roy Calvert, who was looking serious. A rustle went round the table. The only person who stayed quite still was Winslow; he had been gazing down in front of him throughout the reading of the letter, and now he did not move.

‘This is the largest benefaction the college has ever had,’ said Chrystal, who could contain himself no longer. ‘I call this a day.’

‘I foresee grave difficulties,’ said Despard-Smith. ‘I am positive that it will need the most serious consideration before the college could possibly decide to accept.’

‘Somehow, though, I rather think we shall,’ said Crawford, with the only trace of irony I had ever seen him show. ‘I must say this is a one achievement, Chrystal. I suppose we owe this to you, and you deserve a very hearty vote of thanks. Speaking as a man of science I can see this college taking the biggest jump forward it’s ever made.’

‘Good work, Chrystal,’ said Francis Getliffe. ‘It’s going to make a terrific difference. Good work.’

‘I can’t accept all these congratulations for myself,’ said Chrystal, curt but delighted. ‘There’s one man who’s been more responsible than I have. That’s Brown. He nursed young Timberlake. He looked after Sir Horace. It’s Brown you ought to thank. Without him, we shouldn’t have come within shouting distance.’

‘I’m afraid that I’m compelled to disagree,’ said Brown, settling himself comfortably to enjoy passing a good round compliment to Chrystal. ‘The sense of the college is absolutely right in thinking that we owe this magnificent endowment to the Dean, as no one is in a better position to appreciate than I am. If other fellows had been able to witness the time and trouble, the boundless time and trouble, that the Dean has bestowed upon securing this benefaction, I can assure the college that its sense of indebtedness to him would be even more overwhelming than it is. For his untiring devotion and unparalleled skill, I believe we ought to rank the Dean himself among the great benefactors of this society.’

‘I associate myself wholeheartedly with those remarks,’ said Crawford. Francis Getliffe and others said hear, hear.

‘I feel we also owe the deepest gratitude to our other colleague Brown,’ said Jago. I joined in the applause, even Nightingale said an amiable word. Roy Calvert grinned.

‘The old boy has unbelted to some purpose,’ he said. ‘I wonder how many free meals he could have taken off us before we gave him up.’

‘You’re not in a position to complain,’ said Chrystal severely, provoked because Roy did not seem weighed down by his obligation.

‘Certainly not.’ Roy was still grinning. ‘But it would have been beautiful if the old boy’s patience hadn’t given out.’

‘It will make your subject, young man,’ Crawford reproved him.

‘Just so. We’ll polish it off,’ said Roy.

Winslow had not yet spoken. Words went to and fro across the table, expressing gratification, mild misgivings, disapproval from some that Roy Calvert had been singled out, triumphant emphasis from Brown, Jago, and myself. In all of these exchanges Winslow took no part, but went on sitting with his head bent down — until at last, when the table happened to fall silent, he looked up from under his lids.

‘I confess that I am not particularly confident of disentangling the sense of this remarkable letter,’ he said. ‘The style of our worthy friend is not apparently designed to reveal his meaning. But correct me if I am wrong — I gather some members of the college have been discussing this benefaction with Sir Horace?’

‘In the vaguest terms you can possibly imagine,’ said Brown, prompt and emollient. ‘Put it another way: Sir Horace asked me among others one or two questions, and it wouldn’t have been ordinary decent manners not to reply. I imagine the Dean was placed in the same rather embarrassing position.’

‘It must have been most embarrassing,’ said Winslow. ‘I take it, my dear Tutor, you were forced most unwillingly to discuss the finances of the college?’

Roy Calvert was scribbling on a piece of paper. He passed it to me along the table: it read ‘Winslow will never recover from this.’

‘Naturally we shouldn’t consider ourselves competent,’ said Brown. ‘No one’s got a greater respect for the Dean’s financial acumen than I have — but, if either of us had had the remotest idea that Sir Horace was going to make a definite proposition without giving us time to look round our first thought would have been to go straight to the Bursar.’

‘That doesn’t need saying,’ Chrystal joined in.

‘I recall very vividly,’ said Brown, ‘one evening when the Dean asked me what I thought was the point of Sir Horace’s questions. “I suppose it can’t mean money,” he said. “If I had the slightest hope it might” — I think I’m remembering him properly — “our first step would be to bring the Bursar in”.’

‘I’m very much affected by that reminiscence,’ said Winslow, ‘I’m also very much affected by the thought of the Dean expending “countless time and trouble” without dreaming for a moment that there would be any question of money.’

‘I’m sure I’m speaking for the Dean as well as myself,’ said Brown, ‘when I say that nothing would distress us more than that the Bursar should feel in the slightest degree left out. It’s only the peculiar circumstances—’

‘I’ve never had much opinion of myself as Bursar,’ said Winslow. ‘It’s interesting to find others taking the same view. It looks at any rate as though my judgement remains unimpaired. Which will be a slight consolation to me in my retirement.’

Despard-Smith said: ‘I hope you’re not suggesting—’

‘I’m not suggesting, I’m resigning,’ said Winslow. ‘I’m obviously useless when the college goes in for money seriously. It’s time the college had someone who can cope with these problems. I should have a great deal more faith in the Dean or Mr Brown as Bursar than they can reasonably have in me.’

‘I couldn’t consider it,’ said Chrystal, and Brown murmured in support.

‘This is disastrous,’ said Despard-Smith.

There were the usual exclamations of regret, incredulity, desire that Winslow should think again, that followed any resignation in the college. They were a shade more hurried than usual, they were more obviously mingled with relief. Despard-Smith remembered that no resignation could be offered or accepted while the college was without a Master. ‘In that case,’ said Winslow, ‘the new Master will have a pleasant duty for his first.’ His grim sarcasm was more repelling than ever now, and there was no warmth in the attempts to persuade him back. No one dared to be sorry for him. Then suddenly Jago burst out: ‘This is a wretched exchange.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Crawford.

‘I mean,’ Jago cried, ‘that we’re exchanging a fine Bursar for a rich man’s charity. And I don’t like it.’

‘It’s not our fault,’ said Chrystal sharply.

‘That doesn’t make it any more palatable.’ Jago turned to his old enemy and his eyes were blazing. ‘Winslow, I want you to believe that we’re more distressed than we can say. If this choice had lain with us, you mustn’t be in any doubt what we should have chosen. Sir Horace would have had to find another use for his money. We can’t forget what you’ve done for us. In one office or another, you’ve guided this college all your life. And in your ten years as Bursar the college has never been so rich.’

Winslow’s caustic smile had left him, and he looked abashed and downcast.

‘That’s no thanks to me,’ he said.

‘Won’t you reconsider it?’ cried Jago.

Winslow shook his head.

The meeting broke up soon after, and Roy Calvert and I went for a stroll in the garden. A thick mist was gathering in the early evening, and the trees stood out as though in a Japanese print. We talked over the afternoon. Roy had enough trace of malice to feel triumphant; he imitated the look on some of their faces, as they heard of the bequest to him. ‘Sir Timberlake’s a bit of a humorist,’ he said. ‘Oh dear, I shall have to become respectable and stuffed. They’ve got me at last.’

We walked into the ‘wilderness’, and I mentioned Winslow. Roy frowned. We were both uncomfortable; we shared a perverse affection for him, we had not liked to watch his fall, we had admired Jago’s piece of bravura at the end. But we were uneasy. Somehow we felt that he had been reckless and indiscreet; we wished he would be quiet until the election. Roy showed an unusual irritation. ‘He will overdo things,’ he said. ‘He never will learn sense. All this enthusiasm about Winslow’s work as Bursar. Absurd. Winslow’s been dim as a Bursar. Chrystal would be much better. I should be an extremely good Bursar myself. They’d never let me be. They wouldn’t think I was sound.’

It seemed odd, but all he said was true.

Then we saw Winslow himself walking through the mist, his long heavy-footed stride noiseless on the sodden grass.

‘Hullo, Winslow,’ said Roy. ‘We were talking about you.’

‘Were you?’ said Winslow. ‘Is there much to say?’

‘Quite a lot,’ said Roy.

‘What shall you do, now you’ve got some leisure?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. I can’t start anything new.’

‘There’s plenty of time,’ I said.

‘I’ve never lacked for time,’ he said. ‘Somehow, I’ve never had the gift of bringing things off. I don’t know why. I used to think I wasn’t a fool. Sometimes, by the side of our colleagues, I thought I was a remarkably intelligent man. But everything I’ve touched has come to nothing.’

Roy and I looked at each other, and knew it was worse to speak than to stay silent. It would not have consoled him if we spoke. It was better to watch him, stoically facing the truth.

Together the three of us walked in silence through the foggy twilight. Bushes and trees loomed at us, as we took another turn at the bottom of the garden. We had covered the whole length twice before Roy spoke again, to ask a question about Dick Winslow. He had just got engaged, said Winslow. ‘We scarcely know the girl,’ he added. ‘I only hope it’s all right.’

His tone was warm and unguarded. His son had been the bitterest of his disappointments, but his love glowed on. And that afternoon the thought of the marriage refreshed him and gave him pleasure.

32: The Virtues of the Other Side

While we were walking round the garden, Roy Calvert asked Winslow to go with him to the pictures. Winslow was puzzled by the invitation, grumbled that he had not been for years, and yet was touched. In the end, they went off together and I was left in search of Brown.

I wanted to talk to him alone, for I still thought it might be worth while for me to go round to Gay’s. But, when I arrived, Chrystal was just sitting down. He was smoking a pipe, and his expression was not as elated as it had been that morning. Even when Brown produced a bottle of madeira — ‘it needs something rather out of the ordinary to drink Sir Horace’s health’ — Chrystal responded with a smile that was a little twisted, a little wan. He was dispirited because his triumph, like all triumphs, had not been as intoxicating as he had imagined it.

He emptied his glass absently, and smoked away. He interrupted a conversation with a sharp question: ‘What was your impression of this afternoon?’

‘My impression was,’ said Brown, who sensed that his friend needed heartening, ‘that everyone realizes you’ve done the best day’s work for the college that anyone has ever done.’

‘Not they. They just take it for granted,’ said Chrystal.

‘Everyone was full of it,’ said Brown.

‘I believe they think we’ve treated Winslow badly. That’s the thought they’ve gone away with.’ Chrystal added, with hurt and angry force: ‘Jago is amusing.’

‘He wanted to soften the blow,’ said Brown.

‘There may have been a bit of policy in it,’ I suggested. ‘He may have wanted to make a gesture. He’s bound to be thinking of the election.’

‘Certainly. I was glad to see him showing some political sense at last,’ said Brown. He had followed my lead with his unceasing vigilance: he knew it was untrue, as well as I did: we were trying to take Chrystal’s attention away.

‘I don’t believe it, Eliot,’ retorted Chrystal.

‘He’s not a simple character,’ I went on.

‘I give you that,’ Chrystal said. ‘By God, I give you that. And there’s something I wouldn’t confess outside this room.’ He paused and looked at us. ‘There are times,’ he said slowly, ‘when I see the other side’s case against Jago. He’s too much up and down. He’s all over you one minute. Then he discovers some reason for getting under one’s skin as he did this afternoon. I say, I wouldn’t confess it outside this room, but there are times when I have my doubts. Don’t you? Either of you?’

‘No,’ said Brown with absolute firmness.

‘Some of what you say is true,’ I said. ‘But I thought it over when I decided on Jago. I didn’t believe it mattered enough to count against him. I still don’t.’

‘Not more than you did?’

‘No, less,’ I said.

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Chrystal.

Then Chrystal said, with a pretence of offhandedness: ‘Anyway, it doesn’t look as though we’re going to get him in.’

‘I don’t quite follow you,’ said Brown, but his eyes were piercing.

‘Has Pilbrow cabled back to you yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘There you are. I shall expect him when I see him. Sometime next year.’

‘I’ve never known you rush to conclusions so fast,’ Brown said, ‘as you have done over this election.’ A deep frown had settled on his face.

‘I knew we shouldn’t get over it,’ said Chrystal, ‘the day I heard about Royce’s cancer. People still don’t know what we’ve lost.’

‘I can’t regard that as a reason,’ Brown said, ‘for not settling down to play our hand.’

Chrystal said: ‘You haven’t denied the facts. You can’t deny them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, you’ve had no reply from Pilbrow. It’s a bad sign. And the votes are 6–6.’

‘There’s nothing at all sensible to be done.’

‘Nothing at all,’ I added.

‘Is that absolutely true?’ Chrystal was talking to Brown in a tone of great reason and friendliness. ‘Look, I’ll put up a case for you to knock down. We threatened those two prima donnas that if they didn’t play we’d settle on a third candidate. The other side were only too anxious to come in. Men like old Despard and Getliffe didn’t like this lamentable position any more than we did. And I don’t believe Crawford did. I’ve got some respect for their judgement. Did you notice that they were very forthcoming this afternoon? More than some of their own side. Well, I should like to know their line of thought tonight. What do they expect? They know it’s 6–6 as well as we do. Do you think they’ve heard about Pilbrow?’

‘I should think that it’s extraordinarily unlikely.’

‘I should like to know,’ said Chrystal, ‘whether their thoughts have turned to a third candidate again.’

Brown was flushed.

‘It’s possible they may have,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t be a very profitable speculation. It couldn’t get anywhere unless we were foolish enough to meet them halfway.’

‘I shouldn’t like to dismiss it,’ said Chrystal.

‘I’m sorry to hear you say so,’ said Brown.

‘We should have to feel our way. We shouldn’t have to give away a point. But I should like a chance to explore it.’

‘Have they made any approaches?’ I asked.

‘Not to me,’ said Chrystal.

‘Do you intend to?’

He looked truculent.

‘Only if I see an opening,’ he said.

‘I very much hope you won’t,’ said Brown sternly and with great weight.

‘It’s only as a last resort. If we can’t get our man in.’ All the time Chrystal was trying to placate Brown, trying to persuade him all was well: he was working to get rid of the heavy, anxious, formidable frown that had stayed on Brown’s face. ‘After all,’ said Chrystal, with his trace of the gamin, ‘you didn’t like our last effort. But it came off.’

‘We were luckier than we deserved.’

‘We need a bit of luck.’

‘Nothing will reconcile me,’ said Brown, ‘to any more approaches from our side. They can only give the others one impression. And that is, without putting too fine a point on it, that we’ve lost faith in our man.’

He looked at Chrystal.

‘I realize you’ve always had your misgivings,’ he went on. ‘But that’s all the more reason why you shouldn’t have any dealings with the other side. This isn’t the time to give them any inkling that you’re not a whole-hogger. The only safe course is to leave them in their ignorance.’

‘If they make a move?’

‘We ought to cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Then Brown relaxed. ‘I’m sorry Jago let his tongue run away with him this afternoon.’

‘That didn’t affect me one way or the other,’ Chrystal said curtly. ‘It doesn’t alter the situation.’

‘We’d better all sleep on it,’ said Brown. ‘I expect you’ll agree tomorrow that we’ve got to sit tight. It’s the only statesmanlike thing to do.’

‘I should let you know,’ said Chrystal, ‘before I spoke to anyone.’

33: That Which Dies Last

The next day, December 12th, began for me with a letter which took my mind right away from the college. When I dined in hall that night, my private preoccupation had so affected me that I felt I was a visitor from outside. The college was full of rumours, hushed conversation, tête-à-têtes; in the combination room Francis Getliffe and Winslow spent several minutes talking in a corner. The chief rumours that night were that an informal meeting of the whole college was to be held to discuss the deadlock: and that Nightingale was just on the point of sending round another flysheet.

I had three impressions of extreme sharpness. The first was that Brown was deeply troubled, even more than he had been during the talk with Chrystal the previous night. Chrystal was not dining, and Brown slipped away by himself immediately after hall. I did not get the chance of a word with him. My second impression was that Nightingale behaved as though he had something up his sleeve. And the third, and much the strongest, was that Jago felt that night assured that he was in.

Perhaps, I thought, it was one of those intermissions that come in any period of anxiety: one is waiting for an answer, one goes to bed anxious, wakes up for no reason suffused with hope, suffused with hope so strong that it seems the answer has already come.

Anyway, Jago was quite relaxed, his voice easy; he did not have to clown; he did not make a remark which drew attention to himself. He spoke to Crawford with such friendliness, such quiet warmth, such subdued but natural confidence, that Crawford seemed out of his depth. He had never seen his rival like this before, he had never felt the less comfortable of the two.

I walked away from the combination room with Jago. He had promised to show me a small comet which had become visible a night or two before, and we climbed to the top of a staircase in the second court. There, looking over the garden to the east, he made me see a blur of light close to the faintest star of the Great Bear. He had been an amateur astronomer since childhood, and from the stars he gained, despite his unbelief, something close to a religious emotion.

The silence of the infinite spaces did not terrify him. He felt at one with the heavens; it was through them that he knew a sense of the unseen. But he only spoke of what he could observe. That night, he told me where the comet would have reached by the same time next day: how fast it was travelling: the size of its orbit: how long it would be before man saw it again.

Coming down the stairs, he was full of happiness. He was not even much excited when he saw Pilbrow’s door open and his servant lighting a fire. I went in and asked the reason, and was told that Pilbrow had sent a telegram from London, saying that he was returning by the last train.

Jago heard the servant’s answers from the landing, and I did not need to tell him that Pilbrow was coming back. ‘He’s a wonderful old boy,’ said Jago. He did not say it with emphasis; for him, the news just completed the well-being of an evening. He said a contented good-night, and walked at a leisurely pace along the path to his house. I had not seen him walk so slowly since that afternoon of our first party meeting, when he felt the Mastership lay in his hands.

Once at least he lifted his eyes to the stars.

It was well past one o’clock next morning, and I was writing by my fire, when I heard the clang of the great gate’s bell: gently once or twice, then a long impatient ring, then another. At last the porter must have woken up. I heard the opening of a door, and finally the rattle and clash as the gate was unlocked.

There were steps through the court. I wondered who had come in late, and turned back to my writing. A few minutes later, the steps sounded on my own staircase. It was Pilbrow.

‘I saw your light on my way past. I had to tidy up after the trip. I specially wanted to see you before you went to bed.’

He had burst in, looking ten years younger than his age. He was ruddily sunburned, and there were one or two patches on the top of his bald head from which the skin had peeled.

‘I had lunch in Split thirty-six hours ago. Split! Split! I like the Slavs — Absurd names. Much more absurd than the Italian names.’ He pronounced the name several times aloud, chuckling to himself. ‘Astonishing number of beautiful people. You sit in the market place and watch them… Also extremely prudish. Why do people get steadily more beautiful as you go south-east from the Brenner? The Tyrolese are lovely. The Dalmatians are better still. They also get more prudish as they get more beautiful. The Tyrolese are moderately prudish. The Dalmatians extremely… I suppose it’s a law of nature. A very stupid one too.’

I could scarcely get in a word. He had been flown most of the way home. He had been travelling for two days: his cheeks shone, he did not seem in the least tired.

Soon he said, earnestly and without introduction: ‘Eliot, things are worse in Europe than they have been in my time.’

‘You mean politically?’

‘All our friends are in danger. Everything you and I believe in is going… Our people are just sitting by and watching. And dining in the best houses. Bloody fools. Snobs. Snobbery will make this country commit suicide. These bloody snobs can’t see who their enemies are. Or who are their friends. When a country is blinding itself to that, it’s in a bad way.’

He told me of some of his doings. He had somehow managed to visit his friends in a concentration camp. He was a very brave old man. He was also an acute one, underneath the champagne-like gaiety.

‘I came to tell you,’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s why I was glad to see your light. I wanted to tell you before anyone else. I can’t vote for Jago. I can’t vote for someone who won’t throw his weight in on our side. It’s your side as well as mine. That’s why I came to tell you first…’

I was taken aback. I should not have been so surprised at the outset. I knew it had worried him, but I thought he had come to terms and satisfied himself. It would not have astonished me if he had found some reasonable excuse and stayed away. But I was not prepared for his journey home, his ebullient entry, and then this. I had not recovered myself when I asked flatly: ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Vote for the other man,’ said Pilbrow without a pause. ‘He’s on the right side. He’s always been on the right side. We can trust him in that way.’

I tried to shake off the shock, and do my best. I retraced the arguments I had had with Francis Getliffe. I searched for anything that might influence him: I told him that the three youngest fellows in the college were all supporting Jago — it was not like Pilbrow, I reproached him, to leave the side of youth. But he was obdurate — sometimes a little flustered in speech, but quite unshaken.

I tried once more.

‘You know I feel about the world as strongly as you,’ I said. ‘If that’s possible.’

Pilbrow smiled, pleased by the remark.

‘You do know, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Pilbrow replied. ‘Of course. More than any of those…’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not more than Getliffe or young Luke. But as much. Anyway, I take an even blacker view than you. I’m beginning to feel it like a personal sorrow.’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Pilbrow. ‘Things outside have got to be very bad before they make one feel like that. But they are—’

‘Even so,’ I said, ‘I can’t believe that it ought to affect us here. We’re choosing from two human beings.’ I waited, in the hope it would sink in. ‘You’ve always liked Jago, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Pilbrow at once. ‘He’s warm. He’s got a great gift of warmth.’

‘You don’t care for Crawford?’

‘I’m neutral to him,’ said Pilbrow.

‘He’s on the right side in politics,’ I said, ‘but you know very well that most of your kind of civilization he doesn’t begin to touch. If the books you’ve devoted your life to disappeared tomorrow, he wouldn’t notice the difference.’

‘No. But—’ Pilbrow’s bright brown eyes were troubled.

‘You’ve always set a value on human beings. Surely you’re not going to pass over the difference between those two? You’re saying that you’ll just vote for a programme. Are you really ready to forget what human beings mean?’

‘We’ve got to sacrifice something.’ Pilbrow had found his tongue, and spoke with vigour. ‘If we don’t sacrifice something, there’ll be nothing left at all.’

I made a last attempt.

‘You know what it means for Jago,’ I said.

‘Disappointing…’

‘You know it will be far worse than that.’

‘Yes.’

‘For you it wouldn’t have mattered much — at any time. Would it? You’re not such a diffident man as Paul Jago, you know. You couldn’t pin your self-esteem on to a job. You’ve never given a damn whether people elected you to masterships or presidencies of buffaloes’ clubs. It’s not people like you who are ambitious for positions, Eustace. It is people like Jago — who need some support from outside. And he needs it intolerably. If he doesn’t get the Mastership, it will hurt him more than anyone imagines. It won’t be just disappointing. It will break his heart.’

I added: ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Doesn’t it affect you?’

‘It’s a pity,’ said Pilbrow. ‘He’ll recover in time. They always…’ He broke off. His tone was almost light-hearted, and I knew it was no good. Then he said, with extraordinary vigour, his eyes shining like brown beads, his whole body clenched with energy: ‘I can’t bear to have anyone say that I helped the wrong side. I can’t do as much as I should like, but I shall throw in my weight wherever I can. I hope I have a few years left to do it.’

I knew it was no good. There was nothing to be done. No one could move Pilbrow now. He would vote for Crawford to the end.

And I felt something else. His vigour was marvellous and enviable: I wished I could imagine being so radiant at seventy-four; and yet, for the first time, I saw him overtaken by age.

A few years before he would not have said of Jago, as though human feelings were tiresome, ‘he’ll recover in time’. But in fact he had come to the point where human feelings were tiresome — no, not tiresome so much as remote, trivial, a little comic. That was the sign of age. Pilbrow had been a man of strong affections. But those affections died off, except the strongest of all; as he became old, he could only feel moved by the great themes of his life; all else cooled down, although he struck no one as old, certainly not himself. And where he did not feel himself, he lost his sympathy for others’ feelings. They did not seem important. Very little seemed important. Just as a mature man dismisses calf love with a smile, because he can no longer feel it (though it may once have caused him the sharpest pain), so Pilbrow, that vigorous old man, smiled indifferently at the triumphs and sufferings of the middle-aged. Suddenly one encountered blankness at a point where one expected sympathy and response. He looked just as he had looked ten years before; he could still feel passionately about his deepest concerns; but those concerns were narrowing, and one knew at last that he was growing old.

At times he knew it. At times he could not help but know it. So be clung more ardently to that which moved him still. It was that which died last. For Pilbrow, who had befriended so many, who had spent a lifetime in good causes, who had fought with body and mind, it was the picture of himself still ‘throwing in his weight’ on the side of light. That rang out of his last words. In them one heard the essence of the man: he was stripped by age of all that did not matter: and age revealed his vital core. In a sense, he was self-centred — more so than many men whose lives were selfish by the side of his. He was sweet-dispositioned, he was the most generous of men, but nothing could make him forget his picture of himself. That night I was too much upset to care, but later on it made me feel more brotherlike towards him. I did not see in him the goodness that some did; but I felt the comradeship of common flesh, as well as great tenderness, for the gallant, lubricious, indomitable, and generous old man, with the sturdy self-regard that nothing on earth could move.

He did not realize that I was deeply upset by his news. He went on talking about a Croatian writer, and it was getting on for four when he said that he was looking forward to a good long night.

I was too much disturbed to go to bed myself. I decided to wake Roy Calvert; it was a strange reversal of roles, when I recalled the nights of melancholy in which he had woken me. In his sitting-room the embers were still glowing. He must have had a large fire and sat up late. Proofs of the liturgy lay stacked on his lowest table, and I noticed the dedicatory page IN MEMORY OF VERNON ROYCE.

He was peacefully asleep. He had not known insomnia since the summer, and always when he slept it was as quietly as a child. It took some time to waken him.

‘Are you part of a dream?’ he asked. They were his first coherent words.

‘No.’

‘Let me go to sleep. Rescue my books yourself. Is it a fire? I need to go to sleep.’

He looked tousled and flushed, and, though his hair was already thinning, very young.

‘I’m very worried,’ I said, and he shook himself into consciousness. He jumped out of bed, and put on a dressing-gown while I told him of Pilbrow.

‘Bad. Bad,’ said Roy.

He was still sleepy, but we moved into the sitting-room, and he warmed himself over the remnants of the fire.

‘What is our move, old boy?’

‘We may be losing. I’m afraid for Jago now.’

‘Just so. That gets us nowhere. What is our move?’

He took out his box of bricks and arranged the sides again. ‘7–6 for Crawford. That’s the worst it’s been.’

‘We’ve got nothing to lose if we tackle any of them. I wish we had before. We certainly ought to try everything we know on old Gay,’ I said.

‘Just so. I like the sound of that. Ah. Indeed,’ said Roy. He smiled at me. ‘Don’t be too worried, old boy.’

‘We’ll try anything, but the chances are against us.’

‘I’m sorry for poor old Jago. You’re frightfully sorry, aren’t you? He’s got hold of your imagination. Never mind. We’ll do our damnedest.’ Roy was enjoying the prospect of action. Then he smiled at me again. ‘It’s extremely funny for me to be consoling you.’

34: Obligations of Love

Although I had had only a few hours’ sleep, I was lying wakeful when Bidwell called me. He drew the blind and let in the grey half-light of the December morning: I turned away, longing for sleep again, I wanted to shirk the day.

Bidwell had not lit the fire in my sitting-room early enough; there were only spurts of flame among the great lumps of coal. Smoke blew out of the grate, and it struck cold and raw in the lofty room. I sat down heavy-heartedly to my breakfast. With an effort, I roused myself to call down the stairs for Bidwell. He entered with his usual smile, intimate, deferential, and sly. I sent him to find whether Pilbrow was up yet, and he returned with news that Pilbrow had pinned a note on his door saying he proposed to sleep until midday and was not to be disturbed.

I knew that, as soon as he was about, he would be punctilious in warning his former side of his change of vote. His views were eccentric for an old man, but his manners had stayed gentle and nineteenth century; the only grumble I had ever heard him make about his young friends of the left was that, though he was sure there was some good reason for it, he could not for the life of him understand why they found it necessary to be so rude.

It was certain that Jago, Brown, and Chrystal would receive his note of apology by the end of the day. I did not want to break more bad news to Brown; over breakfast, I decided to leave it, he would find out from Pilbrow’s note soon enough. Then I thought I had better face the trouble, and sent out Bidwell with another message, asking Brown to visit me as soon as he came into college.

He was busy with the scholarship examination, and it was not until eleven o’clock that he arrived.

‘Is it anything serious? Have you heard about a meeting?’ he asked at once.

I told him of Pilbrow’s visit. His face flushed an angry purple, and he cursed with a virulence I had never heard before. He ended up: ‘It’s all his confounded politics. I always thought that he’d never grow up. It’s bad enough having people with cranky opinions in the college, saving your presence, Eliot, but it’s a damned scandal when they interfere with serious things. It’s a damned scandal. I shall never think the same of Pilbrow.’

It was the first time in the whole year that he had lost his balance. At last he said, with regretful bitterness: ‘I suppose we may as well tell Chrystal. I should have hoped at one time that he would take it as much amiss as I do.’

Chrystal listened to the news with attention, and received it quite differently from Brown.

‘Well. That’s that,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’m much surprised.’

His response was mixed from the first moment — mixed, with his soft-hearted concern for his friend’s misery, his guilt at his friend’s anger, his delight at a hidden plan, his strong but obscure gratification.

‘It’s just as well I established contact yesterday,’ he said triumphantly. ‘We hadn’t told you, Eliot. Brown was not happy about going on. But some people on the other side would welcome a meeting. Of everyone who wants to come. Throwing everything into the melting pot. I told Brown yesterday it was our best way out. Now I’m sure of it.’

‘The position was different yesterday.’

‘I took it for granted there were floating votes.’

‘I don’t want a way out from Jago, and I never should,’ said Brown.

I asked if the meeting had been decided on.

‘I don’t think they’ll back out,’ Chrystal replied. ‘I’m not sure if they want to.’

‘Not even,’ I said, ‘now that they can see a majority for Crawford? When they hear about Pilbrow, they’ll feel they’re winning for the first time. Why should they want a meeting?’

‘They would be very foolish to contemplate such a thing,’ said Brown heavily to Chrystal. ‘Yesterday was a different situation. They stood to gain by saying yes to any approach you made. It was only decent common sense for them to draw you on. I shouldn’t think much of their judgement if they hadn’t welcomed any discussion you liked to suggest. They knew that we were showing our weakness.’

‘It’s turned out right. It may save us,’ said Chrystal.

‘I’ll believe that when I see the slightest sign that they’re willing to compromise — now they’re sitting with the majority.’

‘I’ll see there’s a meeting,’ said Chrystal. ‘It can be done. They’ll be willing to compromise.’

After lunch, Roy and I were sitting in my rooms. We intended to walk out to Gay’s house in time for tea; it was no use leaving the college until three, for the old man took his afternoon sleep according to the timetable which regulated all his actions and which had not varied for forty years.

I had deliberately kept back from Brown and Chrystal that we were making an attempt on Gay. Chrystal was now set on a compromise, and I did not think it safe to tell him. Unless Jago’s chances were revived, there was nothing Chrystal would do to help: he was more likely to hinder.

‘Just so,’ said Roy. ‘He’s an interesting man. If he’d been as single-minded over poor Jago as he was about making Sir Timberlake unbelt, we should have raced home.’

We talked about personal politics, of which in different places we had now seen a good deal. One point had struck us both: will, sheer stubborn will, was more effective than cunning or finesse or subtlety. Those could be a help; but the more one saw, the more one was forced to the banal conclusion that the man you wanted on your side was the man who believed without a shade of doubt that you were right. Arthur Brown was cunning and resourceful; but he had been the mainstay of Jago’s cause because, more powerfully than any of us, without any qualifications at all, he was determined to get Jago in. And Crawford’s side, which had so long been numerically weaker, began with Despard-Smith, Winslow, and Getliffe, not one of whom ever felt a doubt between Crawford and Jago. In that they were luckier than we had been; for Chrystal, whose will could be as strong as any of theirs, had had it split throughout the entire struggle.

As we were talking, there was a tap on the door and Mrs Jago came in. She said: ‘I’ve been up to Roy’s rooms. I had to find someone—’ and burst out crying. I led her to a chair by the fireplace, tears streaming down her face: there she cried aloud, noisily, with abject and abandoned misery: she laid her head on the arm of the chair, but did not try to hide her face: her heavy body shook with tearing sobs.

Roy and I met each other’s glance. Without speaking, we agreed to leave her alone. When the weeping became quieter, when the convulsions no longer tore her, it was I who stroked her hand.

‘Tell us,’ I said.

She tried to summon up her dignity. ‘Mr Eliot, I must apologize for this exhibition,’ she began, with her imitation of Lady Muriel — then she began to cry again.

‘What is the matter?’ I said.

She tried again to be grand, and then broke down.

‘They’re all saying — they’re all saying that I’m not fit to go into the Lodge.’

‘Alice, what do you mean?’ said Roy.

‘They all hate me. Everyone here hates me. Even you’ — she straightened herself in the chair, her cheeks glistening with tears, and looked at Roy — ‘hate me sometimes.’

‘Don’t be foolish.’

‘I’m not always as foolish as you think.’ She put a hand to the breast of her frock, and drew out a note. I looked at it and so did Roy over my shoulder. It was Nightingale’s flysheet.

‘What else does it mean?’ she cried. ‘I know I’m an ugly hysterical woman. I know I’m no use to anyone. But I’m not as foolish as you think. Tell me the truth. If you don’t hate me tell me the truth.’

‘We don’t hate you,’ said Roy. ‘We’re very fond of you. So will you stop hurting yourself? Then I’ll tell you the truth.’

His tone was affectionate, scolding, intimate. She dried her eyes and sat quiet.

‘That paper means what you think,’ said Roy. ‘One or two men mean to keep Paul out at any cost. They’re aiming at him through you. They’ve done the same through me.’

She stared at him, and he added gently: ‘You’re not to worry.’

‘How can I help worrying?’ she said. The cry was full of pain, but there was nothing hysterical in it.

‘I should like to know how you saw this paper,’ I said. ‘Did Paul leave it about?’

‘He’d never be careless about anything that might upset me — don’t you realize he’s always taken too much care of me?’ she said. ‘No, this one was sent so that I could see it for myself.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Roy.

‘That must be Nightingale himself,’ I said. ‘What in God’s name does he hope for?’

‘He hopes,’ said Alice Jago, with a flash of shrewdness, ‘that it will make me do something silly.’

‘It might be just malice,’ said Roy.

‘No, it’s their one chance to keep Paul out. I’m his only weakness, you know I am,’ she said. ‘I suppose they know Paul is bound to be elected unless they shout the place down.’ (Neither Roy nor I realized till then that she was still ignorant of the latest news.) ‘I’m their best chance, aren’t I? I’ve heard another whisper — I expect I was meant to hear it — that they’re not going to leave me alone. They think I’m a coward. They’re saying that this note is only a beginning. They believe that I shall want Paul to withdraw.’

‘You couldn’t help being frightened,’ said Roy.

‘I could hear them all talking about me,’ she cried. ‘I was hysterical. I didn’t know what to do. I ran out of the house, I don’t know why I came to you—’

I could not be certain what had happened. She had received the flysheet: but had it actually been sent by Nightingale? I could not think of any other explanation. Had there really been other rumours? Was she imagining it all? Now she was speaking, quietly, unhappily, and with simple feeling.

‘I’m so frightened, Roy. I’m terribly frightened still,’ she said. ‘I’ve not been a good wife to Paul. I’ve been a drag on him all these years. I’ve tried sometimes, but I’ve never been any good. I know I’m horrible, but I can’t prevent myself getting worse. But I’ve never done him so much harm as this. I never thought they’d use me to prevent him being Master. How can I stand it, how can I stay here if they do?’

‘Think of Paul,’ said Roy.

‘I can’t help thinking of myself too,’ she cried. ‘How can I stand seeing someone else moving into that drawing-room? And I know you think I oughtn’t to worry about myself, but how can I stand the things they’ll say about me?’

‘It may not happen,’ I said.

‘It will happen.’

‘If it does, you’ll have to harden yourself.’

‘Do you know what they’ll say?’ she asked me wildly. ‘They’ll say I wasn’t good enough for Paul. And instead of doing my best for him, I couldn’t resist making a fool of myself with other men. It’s perfectly true. Though none of them wanted anyone like me.’ She gave a smile, wan, innocent, and flirtatious. ‘Roy, you know that I could have made a fool of myself with you.’

‘You’ve always tried to make Paul love you more,’ said Roy. ‘You’ve never believed that he really loves you, have you? Yet he does.’

‘How can he?’

Roy smiled: ‘And you love him very much.’

‘I’ve never been good enough for him,’ she cried.

She was wretched beyond anything we could say to her: disappointment pierced her, then shame, then self-disgust. She had looked forward so naively, so snobbishly to the Lodge; she had boasted of it, she had planned her parties, she had written to her family. Could it still be taken away? We guessed that Jago had shielded her from all the doubts so far. Could it be taken away through her follies? She was sickened by shame; she had ‘made a fool of herself’ and now they might bring it against her. She did not feel guilty remorse, she was too deeply innocent at heart for that. She felt instead shame and self-hatred, because men spoke ill of her. She had never believed that she could be loved — that was the pain which twisted her nature. Now she felt persecuted, unloved, lost, alone. Had Paul always pretended to love her out of pity? She believed even that — despite the devotion, despite the proofs.

No one could love her, she knew ever since she was a girl, she never had the faintest confidence of being loved. If she could have had a little confidence, she thought, she might have given Paul some comfort; she would not have been driven to inflict on him the woes of a hypochondriac, the venom of a shrew, the faithlessness of one who had to find attention. He would never know how abjectly she worshipped him. All she had done was damage him (she saw the letter in her hand) so much that she could never make it up.

It was long past the time when Roy and I had planned to start for Gay’s, and we had to give up our project for that day. Nothing we said was any help, but it was unthinkable to leave her alone. At last she invited us back to her house for tea. She walked between us through the courts. On our way, we were confronted by Nightingale, walking out of college. His hand moved up to his hat, but she looked away, with a fixed stare. We heard his footsteps dying away. She said almost triumphantly: ‘They’ve cut me often enough.’

In their drawing-room Jago was standing, and the moment we entered he put his arm round her shoulders.

‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you leave word where you’d gone? You mustn’t disappear without trace What is the trouble?’

‘What is the trouble with you?’ she cried. He had been standing in the twilight, but she had switched on the light as we went in. His face was haggard, his eyes sunken: even his lips were pallid.

‘You two know by now?’ said Jago. We nodded. He turned to his wife, his arm resting on her.

‘Dearest, I’m afraid that I’m going to make you unhappy. It seems that I shall be rejected by the college.’

‘Is this my fault?’

‘How could it be your fault?’ Jago replied, but her question, which pierced one like a scream, was not addressed to him. I answered: ‘It’s nothing to do with anyone we’ve been talking about. It’s quite different. Old Eustace Pilbrow has crossed over — for political reasons. He can’t even have read the flysheet when he decided, and he’d be the last to take any notice—’

‘Thank God,’ she said, laying her head on Jago’s shoulder. ‘If they don’t give it to you after all, Paul, I couldn’t bear it to be because of me.’

‘Does it concern us,’ asked Jago bitterly, ‘the precise reason why I may be thrown aside?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ she said. She rounded on me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

I said: ‘I couldn’t — until I was sure Paul knew.’

‘Do you realize what it means? Do you realize that they’re hoping to humiliate me now?’ Jago cried.

‘They couldn’t,’ she said. ‘Nothing could. Nothing could touch you. You’re big enough to laugh at anything they do. They know you’re bigger than they are. That’s why they fear you so.’

Jago smiled — was it to relieve her, as a parent pretends to an anxious child? Or had she brought him comfort?

He kissed her, and then said to Roy and me: ‘I am sorry to receive you like this. But the news has knocked me out more than I expected.’

‘We’re not giving up,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Jago, ‘that I shouldn’t ask you to.’

He seemed suddenly tired, passive, and resigned. He sat down in his armchair as though the suffering had lost its edge but had worn him out. He enquired after tea, and Alice rang for it. Suddenly he said to her: ‘Why did you ask whether it was your fault? What do you know about the flysheet?’

She began to speak, then said: ‘No, Paul, I can’t—’ and turned to us for aid. I told Jago that someone, presumably Nightingale, had made sure that she should see the flysheet: she was afraid there might be more attacks upon her: she thought they wanted her to persuade Jago to withdraw; she had been in anguish for Jago’s sake.

Very softly, Jago exclaimed.

Then he spoke to her in a quiet, familiar tone.

‘I expect to be rejected now. Would you like me to withdraw?’

Tears had come to her eyes, but she did not cry. She could hardly speak. At last she managed to say: ‘No. You must go on.’

‘You knew what you had to say.’ Jago gave her a smile of love.

When that smile faded, his expression was still sad and exhausted: but in his eyes, as he spoke again, this time to Roy and me, there was a flash of energy, a glitter of satanic pride.

‘I’ve cursed the day that I ever exposed myself to these humiliations,’ he said. ‘I knew you and my other friends meant well, but you were not doing me a kindness when you persuaded me to stand. Whether the college rejects me or takes me, I am certain that I will not stand for another office so long as I live.’ He paused. ‘But I am equally certain that if those people hope to get me to withdraw through doing harm to my wife, I will stay in this election while I’ve got one single man to vote for me.’

He added: ‘And I shall leave nothing to chance. I shall tell my rival so.’

35: Crawford Behaves Sensibly

After Jago cried out that he ‘would tell his rival so,’ he asked Roy to find from the kitchens whether Crawford was dining that night. The answer was yes. ‘That is convenient,’ said Jago.

Crawford arrived in the combination room at the same time as I did, and several of his party were already there. They were drinking their sherry in front of the fire, and there was an air of well-being, of triumph, of satisfied gloating. Crawford greeted them with his impersonal cordiality, and me as well. He seemed more than ever secure, not in the least surprised by what had happened; he took it for granted that it was right.

‘Eliot,’ Nightingale addressed me. He had not spoken to me directly for months.

‘Yes?’

‘I suppose you’ve heard about Pilbrow.’

‘Of course.’

‘I had a note from him this afternoon,’ Crawford announced.

‘Good work,’ said Francis Getliffe.

‘It’s very civil of him to have written,’ said Crawford — and went on to talk without hurry of a new theory of electrical impulses in nerves. Francis Getliffe was making a suggestion for an experiment, Nightingale was listening with the strained attention that nowadays came over him in Crawford’s presence, when Jago threw open the door and said: ‘Crawford. I should like you to spare me a minute.’

Everyone looked up at Jago. He did not say good evening, his eyes did not leave Crawford.

‘Very well,’ said Crawford, not quite at ease. ‘Can we talk here, or would you prefer to go outside?’

‘Nothing I have to say is secret,’ Jago replied. ‘I’m obliged to say it to you, because I’m not certain to whom it should be said by right.’

Crawford rose and said. ‘Very well’ again. By the fire Despard-Smith and Getliffe made a pretence at conversation, but none of us could shut our ears to Jago’s words.

‘I do not hold you responsible for the outrages of your supporters, but I hope that you cannot be utterly indifferent to them.’

‘You’re going too fast for me,’ said Crawford. ‘I don’t begin to know what you’re referring to.’

‘I shall explain myself.’

‘I should much prefer it,’ said Crawford, looking up into Jago’s eyes, ‘if we could keep this business on a friendly basis.’

‘When you hear what I have to say,’ said Jago, ‘you will realize that is no longer easy.’

Jago’s temper smouldered and suddenly flared out and smouldered again. It was different from one of his outbursts of indignation; no one in that room had seen this consuming rage. As they faced it, most men would have been uneasy; Crawford may have been, but his voice was steady and sensible. Angrily, I had to confess that he was holding his own.

‘If that turns out to be true, I shall be very sorry for it, Jago,’ he remarked.

‘If you are elected, none of my friends would suggest that your wife was not entirely fit to adorn the Lodge,’ Jago said.

‘I should be very much surprised to hear it.’

‘I was a little surprised to hear that my wife had received a copy of the flysheet written by your supporter Nightingale.’

Jago’s words were not loud, but Crawford stood silent in front of him.

‘You have seen the flysheet I mean?’

‘I am afraid that I have,’ said Crawford.

‘Can you faintly imagine what it would mean to a woman?’

Crawford stirred.

‘Jago, I very much regret that this should have happened. I shall write to your wife personally, and tell her so.’

‘That is not enough.’

‘It is all I can do, unfortunately.’

‘No,’ said Jago. ‘You can discover through what source the flysheet reached her. I may tell you that it was deliberately sent.’

Jago was at the limit of his anger. Crawford shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I can understand your feelings, but you exaggerate my responsibility. I am sincerely sorry that your wife should suffer through any circumstances in which I am even remotely concerned. I consider it my duty to tell her so. But I don’t consider it my duty to become a private detective. I have consented to be a candidate at this election, but I have taken no part whatever in any of the personal complications which have taken place, and I might take this opportunity of saying that I deprecate them.’

Jago was quietened for an instant, by the solidity of that reply. Then he said: ‘This attack on my wife is intended to make me withdraw.

‘I can’t express any view on intentions in which I am not interested,’ said Crawford.

‘If you are not interested, your supporters may be,’ said Jago. ‘I shall protect my wife in all ways open to reason but also, while any of my colleagues are prepared to give me their votes, I shall remain a candidate for the Mastership.’

There was no reply from Crawford, and the whole room was silent, for the conversation round the fire had died right away.

The bell began to peal for dinner, and Crawford said, as though anxious for a cordial commonplace: ‘Are you coming into hall, Jago?’

‘No,’ said Jago. ‘I shall dine with my wife.’

There was a constrained hush as he walked out. Crawford was frowning, the smooth composed impassive look had gone. He sat next to me in hall, did not speak until the fish, and then complained: ‘Speaking as a reasonably even-tempered person, I have the strongest possible objection to being forced to listen to those who insist on flying off the handle.’

‘I’m glad he spoke to you,’ I said.

‘It’s no concern of mine. He ought to know that I have never lent an ear to local tittle-tattle. I’m not prepared to begin now, and I shall wash my hands of the whole stupid business.’

But Crawford was, in his fashion, a man of justice and fair dealing, and he was shaken. He took the chair in the combination room with a preoccupied expression, when Despard-Smith left the hall. None of us asked for wine that night, and Crawford lit his pipe over the coffee.

‘It does look,’ he said, ‘as though somehow Mrs Jago has come into possession of that circular of yours, Nightingale. I must say that it is an unfortunate business.’

‘Very unfortunate — but I fancy she might have benefited if she’d learned what people thought of her before.’ Nightingale smiled.

‘Naturally,’ said Crawford, ‘it can’t have been sent to her by anyone connected with the college. Every one of us would take a grave view of an action of that kind.’

His tone was uncomfortable, and no one replied for some moments. Then Nightingale said again.

‘Is there anything to show,’ he asked, ‘that she wasn’t looking through her husband’s letters on the quiet, and found one that wasn’t meant for her?’

I looked at him.

‘I believe she did not read your note by accident,’ I said.

‘How did you form that opinion?’ he said.

‘I spent the afternoon with her just after she’d read it.’

‘That’s as may be. What does it prove?’

‘She was so miserable that I believe what she said,’ I replied.

‘Do you really expect us to be impressed by that?’

‘I expect you to know that it was the truth.’

His eyes stared past mine, he did not move or blench. Nothing touched him except his own conflict. Find the key to that, and one could tear him open with a word. Touch his envy, remind him of the Royal Society, his other failures, and he was stabbed by suffering. But to everything else he was invulnerable. He did not see any of his actions as ‘bad’. So long as he did not feel ‘put upon’ as weak, he did not worry about his actions. He regarded his attempts to blacken Jago’s circle as a matter of course. He was not at peace enough to go in for the luxuries of conscience.

‘I can’t say your claim is completely convincing, Eliot,’ said Crawford. ‘She may have enemies, nothing to do with the college, who wanted to play an unpleasant practical joke.’

‘Is that how you see it?’ I said.

‘Perhaps it is a storm in a teacup,’ said Crawford. ‘After all she is just going through an awkward time of life. And Jago has always been over-emotional. Still we must try and calm things down. I have occasionally felt that this election has generated more heat than light. We’ve got to see that people know where to stop.’

Then he laid down his pipe, and went on: ‘I always think that the danger with any group of men like a college is that we tend to get on each other’s nerves. I believe that everyone, particularly the unmarried fellows, ought to be compelled by statute to spend three months abroad each year. And also — and this I do suggest to you all as a practicable proposition — I think we ought to set for ourselves an almost artificially high standard of manners and behaviour. I suggest to you that, in any intimate body of men, it is important to have the rules laid down.’

I noticed that as Crawford delivered his steady impersonal reproof, Nightingale was watching him with anxious attention and nodding his head. It was more than attention, it was devoted deference.

As Crawford rose to go, he said: ‘Nightingale, are you busy? You might walk part of the way home with me.’

The moment he heard the invitation, Nightingale’s harsh, strained face broke into a smile that held charm, pleasure, and a youthful desire to please.

I was to blame, I told myself, for not having seen it before. No doubt he still craved Crawford’s support for getting into the Royal Society, but somehow that longing for a favour had become transmuted into a genuine human feeling. He would do anything for Crawford now.

‘I hope,’ said Francis Getliffe, when we were left alone, ‘that Crawford tells him to shut up.’

I could not resist saying satirically: ‘I thought that Crawford was remarkably judicious.’

‘I thought he was pretty good. If he always handles situations as well as that, I shan’t complain,’ said Francis, with irritation.

‘Some people would have gone further.’

‘No responsible person could have gone further, on that evidence,’ said Francis. ‘Damn it, man, she’s an unbalanced woman. Do you expect Crawford to take as absolute fact every word she says?’

‘I think you do,’ I said. He hesitated.

‘It’s more likely true than not,’ he said.

‘You’re finding yourself in curious company,’ I said.

‘There looks like being enough of it to win,’ said Francis.

We could not get on terms of ease. I asked after his work; he replied impatiently that he was held up. I invited him to my rooms, but he made an excuse for going home.

36: Visit to an Authority

The next morning, December 14th, neither Brown nor Chrystal came into college, and it was from a few minutes’ talk with Winslow in the court that I heard there might be a meeting. ‘Not that any of my way of thinking were much impressed by that remarkable suggestion,’ he said. ‘We’re comparatively satisfied with things as they are. But if it pleases you, it doesn’t hurt us.’

His grin was still sardonic, but more friendly and acquiescent than it used to be. He was on his way to the bursary to clear up his work, so that he could resign as soon as the Master was elected. Nothing, he said with a trace of sadness, would make him stay a day longer.

That afternoon Roy and I were not baulked before we set out for Gay’s. We walked through the backs, going under the mourning sky, under the bare trees; Roy was in the best of spirits. It was with a solemn expression that he rang the bell of Gay’s house, which stood just by the observatory. ‘This is an occasion,’ he whispered.

Gay was sitting in his drawing-room with a paper in his hands.

‘Ah. Splendid,’ he said. ‘You’re come to see my exhibits, I’ll guarantee. I’m glad to see you, Calvert. I’m glad to see you, Nightingale.’

I avoided Roy’s glance.

‘Not Nightingale,’ I said.

‘No. Indeed. Tell me your name, will you?’

‘I’m Eliot.’ It was difficult to conduct this conversation without feeling uncomfortable.

‘I absolutely remember. And what is your subject?’

‘Law.’

‘I congratulate you,’ said Gay with splendid finality.

Although both Roy and I had been to the house several times before, he insisted on our looking round the room and out into the garden. It was all that befitted a middle-class donnish home in Cambridge — the furniture heavier and more old-fashioned than at the Getliffe’s, but nothing except the difference of years to pick it out from theirs. Gay, however, regarded it with singular satisfaction.

‘I always say that I built this house out of my masterpiece. Three thousand pounds I made out of that work, and I put every penny of it into bricks and mortar. Ah, that was a book and a half. I haven’t any patience with these smart alecks who tell us that one can’t get fine scholarship home to the reading public. Why, I shouldn’t have this fine house if they didn’t lap it up. Lap it up, they did, Calvert. What do you think of that?’

‘Wonderful,’ said Roy.

He glanced at us affably and stroked his beard.

‘I will give you young men a piece of advice. Satisfy the scholars first. Show them that you’re better than any of them, that’s the thing to do. But when you’ve become an authority, don’t neglect your public. Why, I should welcome my books being presented by the films. I don’t despise these modern methods. Fine films my sagas would make too. Nothing namby-pamby about them.’

Roy then produced greetings from a letter — I did not know whether it was invented — from one of the linguistic scholars in Berlin. Gay beamed. He seized the chance to tell us again of his honorary degree at Berlin — ‘the great authority on the sagas’.

I made an attempt to get down to business.

‘We very much wanted your advice,’ I said. ‘Now you’ve got this responsibility for presiding over the college till the election—’

‘Ah. Indeed.’

‘We should value your guidance over the Mastership. It’s been on our minds a good deal. Are you satisfied with the way things are shaping?’

‘December the twentieth,’ said Gay resonantly. ‘That’s the great day. Six days from this morning. Splendid. I have everything in hand. I read the statutes each night before I go off to sleep. It’s all in safe hands. You can be sure of that. Now you’ll have been getting impatient to see my exhibits. That’s something more interesting for you.’

We had seen the ‘exhibits’ each time we had gone to the house, but it was impossible not to see them again. Gay’s wife, tiny and birdlike, as old as he but very active, came and wrapped his muffler round his neck and helped him into his great coat. Then he led us at his shuffling pace to the bottom of the garden. All the ‘exhibits’ were connected with his life’s researches on the sagas, and this first one was an enormous relief model of Iceland, at least a hundred feet long — so long, in fact, that on it he was able to make visible each farmstead mentioned in the whole of the saga literature.

‘No towns my saga-men had,’ said Gay proudly. ‘Just healthy farms and the wild seas. They knew what to do with towns. Just burn the houses and put the townsmen to the sword. That was the way to deal with towns.’

He remembered each farm as though he had lived among them as a child. And when we went back into the house, and his wife, coming in almost at the run, had taken off his coat again, he showed us models of Icelandic halls, longships, pictures drawn by himself of what, from the curt descriptions, he imagined the saga heroes to have looked like. His interest was as fervent, as vivid and factual, as it must have been when he was a young man. Some of the sketches had the talent of a portrait painter: there was one of Gudrun that had struck me on my last visit, and another of Skarphedinn, pale, fierce, scornful, teeth projecting, carrying his great axe over his shoulder.

‘Ah. That was a terrible weapon,’ said Gay. ‘That was an axe and a half.’

He loved each detail. And that was, I thought, part of the explanation of his fabulous success. He was not a clever man in the sense that Winslow was, who had done nothing at all. He was simple, exuberantly vain, as pleased with himself as a schoolboy who had just received a prize. But he had enormous zest and gusto, unbounded delight in his work. He had enjoyed every minute of his researches. Somehow all his vitality, mental and physical, had poured into them without constraint or inhibition or self-criticism. He did not trouble himself, he had not the equipment to begin, with the profound whys of existence — but in his line he had a strong simple unresting imagination. And he had the kind of realism which exactly fitted in. He could see the houses of his saga-men, their few bits of furniture, their meagre food and stark struggle for a livelihood: he could see them simply as they were, often as men puzzled, ill-adjusted, frail, trained to a code of almost Japanese courage; and at the same time he could see them as a good deal larger than life. He had thrown every scrap of himself into their existence, and won — and no one could say it was unjust — success on a scale denied to more gifted men.

He talked about each model until a maid brought in a very large tea tray.

‘Ah ha. Tea,’ said Gay, with a diffident but equal enthusiasm. ‘That’s a splendid sight.’

He appeared to eat as his daily tea a meal not much less copious than the one he put away before college meetings. He did not talk, except to ask us to pass plates, until he was well through. Then I decided to come back to our attempt.

‘You’re occupying an exceptional position in this election,’ I said.

‘Ah. Indeed,’ said Gay, munching a slice of black fruit cake.

‘You’re the great scholar of the college.’

‘The greatest Northern scholar of the age, my Berlin friends used to say,’ Roy put in.

‘Did they now, Calvert? Splendid.’

‘You’re also responsible as senior fellow for seeing that this election is properly carried out,’ I went on. ‘And we’ve noticed that you don’t interpret that in a purely legalistic sense. You’re not concerned simply with the ceremony. We know that you want to see the proper choice properly made.’

‘Just so,’ said Roy.

‘I shall never want to escape my duty,’ said Gay.

‘Isn’t that your duty?’

‘I agree with you,’ said Gay, cutting another piece of cake.

‘We need a lead. Which only you can give. We’re extremely worried,’ said Roy.

‘Ah. Indeed.’

‘We want you to advise us on the two candidates,’ I said. ‘Crawford and Jago. We want you to show us how to form a judgement.’

‘Crawford and Jago,’ said Gay. ‘Yes, I think I know both of them. Let me see, isn’t Jago our present Bursar?’

This was baffling. We could not predict how his memory would work. Everything about the world of scholarship was clear before his eyes: but he would suddenly enquire the name of Despard-Smith, whom he had known for fifty years.

‘I thought,’ said Roy, ‘that you had promised to support Crawford?’

‘Perhaps I have, perhaps I have.’ Suddenly he seemed to remember quite well, and he nodded his head backwards and forwards. ‘Yes, I recollect indicating support for Crawford,’ he said. Then, with a kind of simple, cheerful cunning he looked at us: ‘And you two young men want me to change my mind?’ He guffawed: it seemed to him the best of jokes.

For a second, Roy blushed. I thought it was best to brazen it out.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’re not far off the mark.’

‘You see,’ said Gay, in high feather, ‘you can’t pull the wool over my eyes.’

‘Yes,’ said Roy, ‘we want you to think again about those two. You do remember them, don’t you?’

‘Of course I remember them,’ said Gay. ‘Just as I remember your address in Berlin last summer, young man. Jago — that’s our Senior Tutor. He’s not taken quite enough care of himself these last few years, he’s lost a lot of hair and he’s put on too much weight. And Crawford. A very sound man. I hear he’s well spoken of as a man of science.’

‘Do you want a scientist as Master? Crawford’s field is a long way from yours,’ I said.

‘I should never give a second’s thought to such a question,’ Gay rebuked me. ‘I have never attached any importance to boundary lines between branches of learning. A man can do distinguished work in any, and we ought to have outgrown these arts and science controversies before we leave the school debating society. Indeed we ought.’

I had been snubbed, and very reasonably snubbed. The only comfort was, the old man had his mind and memory working, and we were not fighting in a fog.

‘What’s your opinion of Jago?’ asked Roy.

‘Jago’s a very sound man too. I’ve got nothing but good to say for Jago,’ Gay replied.

I tried another lead. ‘At present you’re in a unique position. There are six votes for each man without you. If it’s understood that you vote for Crawford, the whole thing is cut and dried and the chapel election is just a formality.’

‘Cut and dried,’ Gay repeated. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘It means,’ said Roy, extremely quick, ‘that the whole thing is settled from today. It’s all over bar the empty form.’

Gay’s faded blue eyes were screwed up in a frown.

‘I certainly indicated support for Crawford. He’s a very sound man. Jago is a very sound man too, of course.’

‘Need that be final?’ I asked. ‘In those days it didn’t look such a near thing. But you’ve had the opportunity, which none of the rest of us have, of surveying the whole position from on high.’

‘Ah. Those old gods looked down from Odin’s hall.’

‘I should have thought,’ I said, ‘you might now consider it best to remove yourself from the contest altogether. Mightn’t it be best to stand aloof — and then in your own good time decide the election one way or the other?’

‘It would make every one realize how grave a choice it was,’ said Roy.

Gay had finished his last cup of tea. He smiled at Roy. In looks he might have been Roy’s grandfather. But I thought at that moment how young he was at heart.

‘You two are still trying to bamboozle me into voting for Jago,’ he said.

This time Roy did not blush.

‘Of course we are,’ he said. ‘I very much hope you will.’

‘Tell me,’ said Gay, ‘why do you prefer him so much?’ He was asking the question in earnest: he wanted to know.

‘Because we like him better,’ said Roy.

‘That’s spoken like an honest man,’ Gay said. ‘I congratulate you, Calvert. You’re much closer to these two men than I am. I may survey the position from on high’ — he was actually teasing us — ‘but I’m too far away. And I’ve always had great faith in the contribution of youth, I respect your judgement in this matter, indeed I do.’

‘Will you vote for Jago?’ asked Roy.

‘I won’t give you an undertaking today. But I am inclined to reserve my vote.’ Then he went on: ‘The election mustn’t be taken for granted. Our founders in their wisdom did not lay it down for us to meet in chapel just to take an election for granted. Why, we might just as well send our votes by post.’

‘You will think of Jago, will you?’ I persisted.

‘I shall certainly think of Jago. I respect your judgement, both of you, and I shall take that very considerably into account.’

As we got up to go at last, Gay said: ‘I congratulate you both on presenting me with the situation in this splendid way.’

‘We’re the ones who’ve learned something,’ I said.

‘I will write to Despard telling him I propose to reserve my vote. Casting vote, that’s the line for me. Thank you for pointing it out. Thank you, Calvert. Thank you. Old heads on young shoulders, that’s what you’ve got.’

In the dark, Roy and I walked down the Madingley Road. He was singing quietly in his light, clear, tuneful voice. Under the first lamp he glanced at me. His eyes were guiltless and sparkling.

‘Well done,’ he said.

‘He didn’t do so badly, either.’

‘Shall we get him?’

‘I shall be surprised if we don’t,’ I said.

‘Just so. Just so.’

37: ‘Six Nights to Go’

I left Roy at the great gate, and walked round to Jago’s house. Mrs Jago received me with a hostile, angry explanation that she had not been feeling well yesterday. Perhaps she could make amends by offering me some ‘refreshment’? She was so self-conscious that it was painful to be near, jarringly apologetic, more resentful of me with each apology she made.

‘I badly want to see Paul this evening,’ I said.

‘I can perfectly well understand that,’ she replied. ‘You naturally don’t want to take the risk of me making an exhibition of myself again.’

‘You don’t think I mind, do you? It would have done you more harm to stay by yourself.’

‘I know some people are willing to bear with me out of charity — but I won’t accept it.’

‘You’ve not been offered it,’ I said. Perversely, I was coming to have more fellow feeling for her. ‘Is Paul free? I’ve got something to tell him that’s fairly important.’

‘He’s very busy,’ she said obstinately. ‘I don’t think he can be disturbed.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I want to tell him that this election is not lost.’

‘Has anything happened, has anything really happened?’

‘Yes. Don’t hope too much. But it’s not lost.’

Her face exploded into a smile. She looked like a child, suddenly made happy. She ran out into the passage. ‘Paul! Paul! You must come and see Mr Eliot at once! He’s got something to tell you.’

Jago walked into the drawing-room, tense to his fingertips.

‘It’s extremely good of you to take this trouble, Eliot. Is it something — worse?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not impossible that Gay may finish on your side. He may not — but it’s worth holding on for.’

‘Old Gay?’

I nodded.

Suddenly Jago broke into roars of laughter.

‘Gay! He’s the vainest old boy I’ve ever met in my life.’

He went on laughing. ‘The vain old boy!’ It was an odd response, I thought later: yet on the spot it seemed completely natural.

Then he wiped his eyes and settled down; his tension returned in a different mode.

‘I’m most grateful to you, Eliot,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I should have done without you right through this wretched business. This news changes everything. I think I was just teaching myself to face the humiliation. But this changes everything.’

I warned him, but it had no effect. He was always capable of being possessed by a rush of hope. Now there was no room for anything else. It all lay in his hands, the college, his whole desire. He looked at his wife with love and triumph. When I had gone, they would get busy on their plans again. He was alive with hope.

I tried once again to make him more moderate. In some ways it would have been kinder not to tell him about Gay at all.

‘There is one thing you needn’t warn me of, Eliot,’ he said with a smile. ‘There are still six nights to go. We’ve still six nights to get through.’

‘You’ve got to rest,’ she said.

‘In a week’s time,’ said Jago, ‘it will all be over.’

I went from his house straight to Brown’s rooms, and found Brown and Chrystal talking of the meeting. It was as good as arranged for the following night, December 15th. To Brown’s amazement, the other side had not backed out (were they so confident that they did not care? or did Despard-Smith like the last ounce of grave discussion?) They were talking of what line to begin on.

‘Is that the meeting?’ I asked.

‘Certainly,’ said Chrystal.

‘It may not be necessary,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Brown very quickly.

‘I think there’s a good chance of Gay coming over.’

‘Have you seen him? I didn’t know you were thinking of seeing him—’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ I said. ‘Roy Calvert and I happened to drop in for tea.’

Brown cross-questioned me with the inquisitiveness he showed at any piece of news, but with an extra excitement and vigilance. His curiosity was always insistent; there were moments, as those sharp eyes watched one, when the company ceased to be bland and peaceful; now it was like being in the dock. Deliberately I played down the part Roy and I had taken — I was feeling Chrystal’s silence on the other side of the fire. Roy had asked the old man a question or two, I said: and I gave word for word his last replies.

In the end Brown was satisfied.

‘It’s absolutely wonderful!’ he cried. Then he turned, heavily but quickly, on his friend. ‘Don’t you think it’s wonderful?’ he said.

Chrystal did not look at him, but stared challengingly at me.

‘Are you sure of this, Eliot?’ he asked.

‘I’m sure of what I’ve told you.’

‘That doesn’t get us very far. He didn’t even say he might vote for Jago.’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘It’s not good enough, Eliot. You’re being led away by your optimism. Wishful thinking,’ said Chrystal. ‘Remember, I’ve had a shot at him myself. I know Gay.’

‘I trust Eliot’s judgement,’ said Brown. His voice was comfortable and rich, as always — but I heard a stern, angry note.

‘It’s not good enough,’ said Chrystal. ‘I dare say the old man will withhold his vote. Just to have a bit of fun. What’s to stop him coming down for Crawford at the end?’

‘I trust Eliot’s judgement,’ said Brown. The stern note was clearer now.

‘I can’t be sure,’ I said. ‘No one can be sure. But I don’t think so for a minute. Neither does Calvert.’

‘I don’t give twopence for Calvert’s opinion. He’s not lived long enough. He hasn’t seen anything yet,’ Chrystal replied.

‘I should bet at least 4–1,’ I said, ‘that when we go into chapel Gay will write down Jago’s name.’

‘I accept that absolutely,’ said Brown, still watching his friend.

‘Well, we disagree,’ said Chrystal. ‘This is all amusing about Gay. But I don’t see that it can alter our plans.’

‘We may have this election in our hands,’ said Brown.

‘We may not.’

‘I believe we have. Have you stopped listening to reason?’ Brown’s friendly blandness had broken at last, he spoke with a mixture of menace and appeal.

‘I’m afraid we disagree, Arthur.’

‘You can’t disagree that the sensible course is to get out of this meeting,’ said Brown. ‘Anything else is ridiculous.’

‘I wish I didn’t disagree. I’m afraid I do.’

‘I want an explanation,’ said Brown.

‘Yes. Well, I don’t believe that Gay will come over. I expect Eliot has got everything he said right. But I’ve seen Gay myself.’

‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridges since then,’ cried Brown. ‘These two may have been better at handling the old man than we were.’

‘They wouldn’t claim that themselves,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m sorry to seem ungrateful for Eliot’s efforts, but I don’t believe in Gay. Even if I did, there’s another point. I think we’re bound to keep our understanding with the other side. They were willing to hold this meeting. They didn’t try to back out when they seemed to be sitting pretty.’

‘Did they ever mean business?’ asked Brown, his voice no longer comfortable at all, but full of scorn.

‘I think they did, Arthur.’

‘I think you deceived yourself. I think you’ve deceived yourself over many things you’ve done in this election. I know you’ve always wanted to find a way out from Crawford. I’ve never doubted that. But you’ve also been glad of a chance to find a way out from Jago. That’s why you’re giving me reasons that aren’t anything like reasons, they’re ridiculous after everything we’ve brought off together. You said yesterday that you’d stay with Jago if I could get him in. Now you’re finding an excuse for spoiling it, just when we’ve got our last chance.’

‘It won’t spoil it, Arthur. If he does stand a chance,’ said Chrystal. ‘Very likely nothing will come out of this meeting. Then if old Gay remembers we might still be all right.’

‘I keep thinking of the things we’ve brought off together. We shouldn’t have managed them alone. We couldn’t even have begun getting that benefaction alone. And that’s been true for a good many years. It’s a pity to find us divided now.’

‘Do you think I don’t feel that?’ said Chrystal brusquely. He had been buoyed up, exhilarated, master of his plans, conscious that others were waiting for him, pleased perhaps to escape from Brown’s steady imperceptible guidance. Yet he was moved by the reminder of their comradeship, by the call on his affection. His manner, which had been conciliatory, became at once tough and aggressive. He was angry to be so moved.

Brown, too, was moved. His composure was riven, he had spoken more jaggedly than I had known him. Through the rifts one saw the formidable core of the man. He had great feeling for his friend, he was warm and expansive — but that did not matter to him now. He was moved by the thought of defeat, by losing the struggle for Jago, by the sheer blank fury of losing. I was sure that he had called deliberately on their friendship, knowing that it would affect Chrystal far more than himself.

‘Aren’t you prepared to stop this meeting?’ asked Brown.

‘I don’t see how I can,’ said Chrystal.

‘I regard it as a major disaster,’ said Brown.

38: A Cave is Formed

There was a large gathering in hall on the night of December 15th: and afterwards, without waiting for wine, we moved off by twos and threes to Chrystal’s rooms. As we turned under the light at the bottom of the staircase, I noticed Chrystal walking with Despard-Smith and Getliffe. Jago and Crawford appeared out of the darkness together: then Brown alone.

Everyone was there but Gay. Luke, who had not been dining but hurried in after, was apologizing to Despard-Smith for not being able to stay. He made the same apology to Brown, in his smooth, youthful, deferential way. I was sitting near the door, and he had a word with me on his way out. ‘I’ve got an experiment to finish,’ he said in a whisper, forgetting all about tact, ‘and I’m going to finish it if I sit up the whole blasted night. I’ve told these uncles that I’m going to vote for Jago. I’ve been bloody well telling them that ever since I can remember.’

Despard-Smith showed his usual hesitation before taking the chair (‘Some day,’ said Roy half-audibly, ‘we’ll take him at his word. Then he’ll be dished.’). He explained solemnly that some fellows were ‘increasingly exercised about the serious position’ in which the college found itself over the election. He thought he could, without breach of confidence, mention that within the last twenty-four hours he had received two letters from Professor Gay. One he was not at liberty to disclose, since it was addressed to him as having presided over the caucus for one of the candidates, ‘but I think I may say, in fact I think I must say, that our senior colleague in that letter expresses his intention to reserve his vote. The other letter refers to this meeting, and I propose to read it.’ As always when reading, Despard-Smith passed into his chapel voice.

Dear Despard,

‘I learn with interest of your intention to have an informal pow wow’ — Despard-Smith repeated the word with extraordinary and depressed gravity — ‘pow wow before the great day of our election. I thoroughly approve of this little venture, and you may go ahead with my blessing. Did not my saga-men discuss cases in their booths before they came to the great debates in the Thing? I congratulate you on this attempt to clear your heads. Clear heads, those are what you most require. I do not, however, consider that it fits my present position of responsibility to take a hand in your little pow wow. You appear to suggest that I may not want to stay out at night because I am not so young as I was. Pray do not worry on that account. I can outlast some of you younger men yet. If I absent myself, it is on completely different grounds. I am entrusted with the grave responsibility of being at the helm while the college plunges through this stormy crossing. And I should further say that some of our colleagues have represented to me that I have an added trust because of such little distinction as I may have been fortunate enough to attain.

‘Weighing these responsibilities in my mind, I have reached the conclusion I must stand aloof from any discussions among yourselves up to the great day of the election. I shall then cast my vote as my conscience guides me, and I hope to lead you all on that same course, so that we may make a worthy choice.

‘Good luck to your little pow wow.

‘Ever sincerely yours,

‘M H L Gay.’

‘This does not make our task lighter,’ said Despard-Smith, looking up from the letter. ‘So far as I am entitled to judge the intentions of the fellows, we have not yet attained a firm majority for either of our candidates. Some of us think this may lead us into a position which is nothing short of disastrous. I have never known anything comparable during my long association with the college. By this stage we have always been certain before who was going to win our suffrages. We were certain’ — he said, with one of his funereal anticlimaxes — ‘who was going to draw the lucky n-number. But this time we have not been so wise. I should like us to hear the Dean’s views on this most unfortunate dilemma.’

‘It’s lamentable,’ Chrystal began, and went on to make a brisk, reasonable, friendly statement. It had been bad for the college to go through this prolonged suspense. He disliked being separated from his friends on the other side, and he hoped they disliked it too. Either of the candidates would be an excellent Master whom the college would be lucky to get. It was a sign of something wrong that the college should become unfit to live in just because they could not choose between two excellent men. But apparently they could not choose. ‘I’m just pointing out the snags,’ said Chrystal. ‘It’s lamentable. I don’t pretend to see the solution. But I just want to ask one question: has the time come to forget our disagreement? Has the time come to find a way out?’

From that moment the room was electric with attention. This was not just a talk: something was in the air. Even those who had not followed Chrystal’s progress knew something hung on these minutes. Brown’s face was lowering: Jago sat as though he did not hear.

We looked at each other, waiting for someone to begin. At last Crawford spoke. He was even more deliberate than his habit, not so impregnably assured: he was choosing his words.

‘I wish this was such a pleasant occasion as the last time we met in this room. I should much prefer to hear the Dean explain again how he and his friend Brown had brought off their great coup for the college. The more I reflect, the more chances I think that coup of theirs opens up in front of us. As for the present position, I agree with a good deal of what the Dean says. But I don’t consider this is the right time to act. I know this long wait hasn’t improved some of our tempers. But it won’t be much longer. Speaking as a fellow, I don’t see any alternative to waiting. I didn’t quite understand the Dean’s suggestion. I do not know whether he thinks that other names ought to be canvassed now. Speaking as a candidate, I can’t be expected to accept the view that other names ought to be considered at this late stage. I hope that the Senior Tutor agrees with me.’

‘Utterly.’

‘My advice is,’ said Crawford, ‘leave it until the day. One of us will be elected unless someone decides to throw away his vote. If neither of us is elected, then it will be time for us to have a talk.’

Jago had only spoken that one word since he entered the room. Now he roused himself. He had been keeping unnaturally still. By this night, even Crawford’s expression bore a trace of worry: but it was nothing to Jago’s. Yet he spoke with dignity.

‘If the college votes in chapel and cannot reach a majority for either my colleague or myself, it will be necessary for us all to meet together,’ he said. ‘It is not fitting either for me or my colleague to say more now. If the need should arise, we shall give what help we can to find a solution for the college. It would be our plain duty to do so.’

His eyes had rested in turn on Chrystal, Despard-Smith, and Brown. Now he looked at Crawford.

‘If the others wish to continue with their discussion,’ he said, ‘I think we must remove ourselves. There is nothing left for us to add.’

‘I agree,’ said Crawford, and they left the room.

We listened to their footsteps down the stairs. Chrystal said sharply to Despard-Smith: ‘I should like to hear what other people think.’

There was a pause. Pilbrow burst out that he was solid for Crawford, despite the lateness of his change, for reasons some of us knew. Another pause. Nightingale said with a smile that he would never vote for anyone but Crawford. Then Brown spoke, and during his whole speech his gaze did not leave Chrystal.

‘I’m glad to have this opportunity of explaining to most of the college,’ he said, ‘that I think we’re in danger of making a terrible mistake. Some people already know the strength of my views, but perhaps those of our number who support Crawford have not heard them. I should like to assure them that I believe Jago will be the best possible Master for the college, and I believe it with more absolute certainty than I have ever felt on such an occasion. Any departure from Jago would be a loss that the college might not be able to recover from for many years. During the rest of my time here, I should not be able to forget it.’

Everyone was looking at him and Chrystal. Many were puzzled, they did not know what was going on. Some saw the struggle clear. Yet everyone was looking at those two faces, the benign one, now flushed with anger, and the domineering.

No one spoke. Chrystal was regarding Brown as though there were a question to ask: there came an almost pathetic smile on Chrystal’s firm mouth.

Suddenly Chrystal looked away.

‘We’re not getting far,’ he said with a harsh, curt bravado. ‘I believe several of us are not satisfied with either candidate. Some of us never have been. I can speak out now they’ve gone. There’s something to be said for Jago: I’ve been resigned to voting for him, as you all know. There’s something to be said for Crawford: I’ve seen things in him lately that I like, and I understand his supporters’ point of view. But we’re not tied to either of them. I believe that’s the way out.’

‘What are you proposing?’ said Despard-Smith.

‘I want to bring it to a head,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m ready to form a cave. Will any of you join me? I should like to find another man altogether.’