Charles Snow - The Masters

‘I don’t know what you can be thinking about,’ said Francis.

‘He’d be a goodish Master,’ I said.

‘Nonsense. Sheer bloody nonsense,’ said Francis. ‘What has he done?’

It was a harsh question, and difficult to answer. Jago was an English scholar, and had published articles on the first writings produced by the Puritan settlers in New England. The articles were sound enough: he was interesting on William Bradford’s dialogue; but it was no use pretending to Francis Getliffe.

‘I know as well as you that he’s not a specially distinguished scholar,’ I said.

‘The Master of the college must be a distinguished scholar,’ said Francis.

‘I don’t mind that as much as you,’ I said, ‘I’m not a perfectionist.’

‘What has he done?’ said Francis. ‘We can’t have a man who’s done nothing.’

‘It’s not so much what he’s done as what he is,’ I said. ‘As a human being there’s a great deal in him.’

‘I don’t see it.’

He had lost his temper, I was trying to keep mine. But I heard an edge coming into my voice.

‘I can’t begin to explain the colour red,’ I said, ‘to a man who’s colour blind. You’d better take my word for it—’

‘You get more fun out of human beings than I do,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to choose someone who gives you the maximum amount of fun. I just want a decent Master of this college.’

‘If you’re trying to secure that by cutting out all human judgement,’ I said, ‘you’ll make the most unforgivable mistake.’

Francis walked three strides, three of his long, plunging strides, to the fire and back. His steps fell heavy in the quiet room.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘how much are you committed?’

‘Completely.’

‘It’s sheer utter irresponsibility. It’s the first time I’ve seen you lose your balance. You must have gone quite mad.’

‘When I say completely,’ I said, ‘I could get out of it if there were a reason. But there won’t be one. Jago satisfies what I want better than anyone we shall find.’

‘Have you given a second’s thought to the fact that he’s an absurd conservative? Do you think this is a good time to elect conservative figureheads, when we might get a reasonable one?’

‘I don’t like that any more than you—’

‘I wish you showed more sign of not liking it in practice,’ Francis said.

‘For this particular job,’ I said, ‘I can’t believe it’s vitally important.’

‘It’s vitally important for every job where men can get into the public eye,’ said Francis. ‘You oughtn’t to need me to tell you. Things are balanced so fine that we can’t give away a point. These conservative fools are sticking out their chests and trying to behave like solid responsible men. I tell you, they’ll either let us drift lock, stock, and barrel to the Fascists; or they’ll get us into a war which we shall be bloody lucky not to lose.’

Francis spoke with a weariness of anger. He was radical, like many scientists of his generation. As he spoke, he was heavy with the responsibility that, in two or three years at most, he and his kind would have to bear. He looked so tired that, for a second, I was melted.

‘You needn’t tell me that, you know, Francis,’ I said. ‘I may be voting for Jago, but I haven’t changed altogether since we last met.’

His sudden creased smile lit up his face, and then left him stern again.

‘Whom do you want?’ I asked.

‘The obvious man. Crawford.’

‘He’s conceited. He’s shallow. He’s a third-rate man.’

‘He’s a very good scientist. That’s understating the case.’

I had never heard a contrary opinion. Some people said that Crawford was one of the best biologists alive.

Francis went on: ‘He’s got the right opinions. He isn’t afraid to utter them.’

‘He’s inconceivably self-satisfied—’

‘There aren’t many men of his standing with radical views. Anything he says, he says with authority behind him. Can’t you see that it might be useful to have a Master of a college who is willing to speak out like that?’

‘It might be very useful,’ I said. The quarrel had died down a little; I was listening to his argument. ‘It might be very useful. But that isn’t all we want him for. Think what Crawford would be like inside the college.’

I added: ‘He’d have no feeling. And no glow. And not a scrap of imagination.’

‘You claim all those things for Jago?’

‘Yes.’

‘One can’t have everything,’ said Francis.

I asked: ‘Will Crawford be a candidate?’

‘If I have anything to do with it.’

‘Have you spoken to Winslow yet?’

‘No. I count him in for Crawford. He’s got no option,’ said Francis.

Yes, I thought. Winslow had talked vaguely of going outside, he had ostentatiously mentioned no name. Those were the symptoms of one who hoped against hope that he would be asked himself: even Winslow, who knew how much he was disliked, who had been rejected flatly at the last election, still had that much hope. But everyone knew that he must run Crawford in the end.

‘I don’t see any other serious candidate,’ said Francis. He asked, suddenly and sternly: ‘Lewis, which side are you on?’

It was painful to quarrel. There was a silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t manage Crawford at any price. I see your case. But I still think this is a job where human things come first. So far as those go, I’m happy with Jago.’

Francis flushed, the vein was prominent.

‘It’s utterly irresponsible. That’s the kindest word I can find for it.’

‘We’ve got to differ,’ I said, suppressing the first words that came.

‘I can’t for the life of me understand why you didn’t wait before you decided. I should have expected you to discuss it with me.’

‘If you’d been here, I should have done,’ I said.

‘No doubt you’ve talked to other people.’

‘Of course.’

‘It will be hard,’ he said, ‘for me to think you reliable again.’

‘We’d better leave it,’ I said. ‘I’ve stood as much as I feel like standing—’

‘You’re going on with this nonsense?’ he shouted.

‘Of course I’m going on with it.’

‘If I can find a way to stop it,’ he said, ‘I promise you I shall.’

Trunks piled up in the college gateway, young men shouted to each other across the court, the porters’ trucks groaned, ground, and rumbled on their way round the stone paths. The benches in hall were filled, there was a surge of noise before and after grace; feet ran up and down stairs, all evening long. At night the scratchings behind the walls were less insistent; the kitchens were full of food now, and the rats, driven out to forage in the depth of the vacation, were going back. A notice came round, summoning a college meeting for a Monday, the first Monday of full term.

The meeting was called for 4.30, the customary time, just as each alternate Monday was the customary day; the bell pealed, again according to custom, at four o’clock, and Brown came down his staircase, Francis Getliffe and Chrystal walked through the gate, I looked round for my gown, all of us on our way to the combination room. The room itself looked transformed from when it was laid for wine at night; a blotter, a neat pile of scribbling paper, an inkwell, pens and pencils, stood in each place instead of glasses; covered with paper, the table shone white, orderly, bleak; the curtains were not drawn, though the wall lights were switched on, and through the windows came the cold evening light. The room seemed larger, and its shape was changed.