Charles Snow - The Masters

‘We shall get much wetter.’ He smiled. ‘You always looked remarkable in the rain. I need to get these presents off tonight.’

We went from shop to shop, up Sidney Street, down John’s Street, Trinity Street, into the market place. He wanted the presents for his disreputable, unlucky Berlin acquaintances who lived above his flat in the Knesebeckstrasse, and he took great care about choosing them.

‘That might do for the little dancer.’ I had heard of ‘the little dancer’, by the same title before. ‘She weighs 35 kilos,’ Roy commented. ‘Light. Considerably lighter than Arthur Brown.’

In one shop, he suddenly asked, quietly, with complete intimacy, about Sheila, my wife. He knew the whole story of my marriage, and what I had to expect when I went each Tuesday to the Chelsea house. I was glad to talk. In the street, he looked at me with a smile full of affectionate sharp-edged pity. ‘Yet you go on among those comfortable blokes — as though nothing was the matter,’ he said. ‘I wish I could bear as much.’

Without speaking, we walked past Great St Mary’s into the market place. He could say no more, and, with the same intimacy, asked: ‘About those comfortable blokes, old boy. Who are we going to have for Master?’

We were loaded with parcels, our coats were heavy with the damp, rain dripped from our faces.

‘I think I want Jago,’ I said.

‘I suppose there’s a move for Crawford.’

‘I’m against that,’ I said.

‘Crawford is too — stuffed,’ said Roy Calvert. ‘He’ll just assume the job is due to him by right. He’s complacent. I’d never vote for a man who was complacent.’

I agreed.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘old Winslow is the most unusual man among that lot. He bites their heads off, he’s a bit of a bully, he’s frightfully ill-adjusted. But no one on earth could call him tug. They wouldn’t have him at any price.’

‘No one on earth could call Jago tug,’ I said. ‘He’s the least commonplace of men.’

‘There are plenty of things in favour of Jago,’ said Roy. ‘But they’re not the things we’re going to hear.’

‘He stands a fair chance,’ I said.

‘He’s not a commonplace man, is he?’ said Roy. ‘Won’t he be kept cut because of that? They’ll never really think he’s “sound”.’

‘Arthur Brown is for him.’

‘Uncle Arthur loves odd fish.’

‘And Chrystal,’ I said, ‘thinks he can manage him. By the way, I’m very doubtful whether he’s right.’

‘It will be extremely funny if he isn’t.’

We turned down into Petty Cury, and Roy said: ‘The ones who don’t want Jago won’t take it quietly. They’ll have a good deal to say about distinguished scholars — and others not so distinguished.’

‘I know more about that than they do,’ he added. I smiled at the touch of arrogance, unusual in him, I saw his face, clear in the light from a shop. He shook his head to get rid of some raindrops, he smiled back, but he was in dead earnest. He went on quietly: ‘Why won’t they see what matters? I want a man who knows something about himself. And is appalled. And has to forgive himself to get along.’

Roy Calvert and I kept coming back to the Mastership, as we talked late into the night. Before we went to bed, we agreed to tell Brown next day that we were ready to support Jago. ‘Sleep on it, sleep on it,’ said Roy, mimicking Brown’s comfortable tones. The next morning Bidwell, after announcing the time and commenting on the weather, said: ‘Mr Calvert’s compliments, sir, and he says he’s slept on it and hasn’t changed his mind.’

At five that afternoon, we found Brown in his rooms. His tea was pushed aside, he was working on some lists: but, continuously busy, he was always able to seem at leisure. ‘It’s a bit early for sherry,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you feel like a glass of chablis? I opened it at lunchtime, and we thought it was rather special.’

He brought out some glasses, and we sat in his armchairs, Brown in the middle. His eyes looked from one of us to the other. He knew we had come for a purpose, but he was prepared to sit there all evening, drinking his wine with enjoyment, and leave the first move to us.

‘You asked me,’ I said, ‘to let you know, when I’d decided about the next Master.’

‘Why, so I did,’ said Brown.

‘I have now,’ I said. ‘I shall vote for Jago.’

‘I shall also,’ said Roy Calvert.

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Brown said. He smiled at me: ‘I had a feeling you might come round to it. And Roy—’

‘It’s all in order,’ said Roy, ‘I’ve slept on it.’

‘That’s just as well,’ said Brown. ‘Because if not I should certainly have advised you to do so.’

I chuckled. In his unhurried, ponderous fashion he was very good at coping with Roy Calvert.

‘Well,’ said Brown, sitting back contentedly, ‘this is all very interesting. As a matter of fact, I can tell you something myself. Chrystal and I had a little talk recently, and we felt inclined to put Jago’s name forward.’

‘Without committing yourselves, of course?’ Roy enquired.

‘Committing ourselves as much as it’s reasonable to do at this stage,’ said Brown.

‘There’s one other thing I think I’m at liberty to tell you,’ he added. ‘Nightingale told me definitely this morning that he was of the same way of thinking. So at any rate we’ve got the nucleus of a nice little party.’

How capably he had managed it, I thought. He had not pressed Jago on any one of us. Chrystal had been undecided, but patiently Brown drew him in. With Chrystal, with me, with Nightingale, he had waited, talking placidly and sensibly, often rotundly and platitudinously, while our likes and dislikes shaped themselves. Only when it was needed had he thrown in a remark to stir one of our weaknesses, or warm our affection. He had given no sign of his own unshakeable resolve to get the Mastership for Jago. He had shown no enthusiasm, he had talked with his usual fair-mindedness. But the resolve had been taken, his mind had been made up, the instant he heard that the Master was dying.

Why was he so resolved? Partly through policy and calculation, partly through active dislike of Crawford, partly through a completely uncalculating surrender to affection; and, as in all personal politics, the motives mixed with one another.

Most of all, Brown was moved by a regard for Jago, affectionate, indulgent, and admiring; and Brown’s affections were warm and strong. He was a politician by nature; since he was set on supporting Jago he could not help but do it with all the craft he knew — but there was nothing politic about his feeling for the man. Jago might indulge his emotions, act with a fervour that Brown thought excessive and in bad taste, ‘let his heart run away with his head’, show nothing like the solid rational decorum which was Brown’s face to the world. Brown’s affection did not budge. In the depth of his heart he loved Jago’s wilder outbursts, and wished that he could have gone that way himself. Had he sacrificed too much in reaching his own robust harmony? Had he become too dull a dog? For Brown’s harmony had not arrived in a minute. People saw that fat contented man, rested on his steady strength, and thought he had never known their conflicts. They were blind. He was utterly tolerant, just because he had known the frets that drove men off the rails, in particular the frets of sensual love. It was in his nature to live them down, to embed them deep, not to let them lead him away from his future as a college worthy, from his amiable wife and son. But he was too realistic, too humble, too genuine a man ever to forget them. ‘Uncle Arthur loves odd fish’, said Roy Calvert, whom he had helped through more than one folly. In middle age ‘Uncle Arthur’ was four square in himself, without a crack or flaw, rooted in his solid, warm, wise, and cautious nature. But he loved odd fish, for he knew, better than anyone, the odd desires that he had left behind.