Charles Snow - The Masters

Soon after, he looked straight at me and said: ‘I suppose it’s too early to ask whether you’ve any idea whom you prefer yourself?’

Slowly, I raised my eyes to meet his.

‘Tonight is a bit too early. I will come and tell you as soon as I am certain.’

‘I understand.’ Jago’s smile was hurt, but warm and friendly. ‘I understand. I shall trust you to tell me, whoever you prefer.’

After that we talked casually and easily; it was not till the college clock struck midnight that Jago left. As he went down the stairs, I walked across to my window and pulled the curtains. The sky had cleared, the moon was shining on the snow. The lines of the building opposite stood out simple and clear; on the steep roofs the snow was brilliant. All the windows were dark under the moon, except for the great bedroom of the Lodge, where the Master lay. There a light glowed, warm, tawny, against the stark brightness of the night.

The last chimes of twelve were still falling on the court. On the ground the snow was scarcely marked. Across it Jago was walking fast towards the gate. His gown blew behind him as he moved with light steps through the bitter cold.

When I woke next morning, the bedroom seemed puzzlingly bright. Round the edges of the blind a white sheen gleamed. Then, half-awake, I felt the chill against my face, remembered the snow, drew the bedclothes higher. Like a pain returning after sleep, the heavy thought came back that that morning I was obliged to call at the Lodge.

The quarters chimed, first from a distance away, then from Great St Mary’s, then from the college clock, then from a college close by. The last whirr and clang were not long over when, soft-footedly, Bidwell came in. The blind flew up, the room was all a-glare; Bidwell studied his own watch, peered at the college clock, uttered his sacramental phrase: ‘That’s nine o’clock, sir.’

I muttered. From beneath the bedclothes I could see his rubicund cunning peasant face, open and yet sly. He said: ‘It’s a sharp old morning, sir. Do you lie warm enough in bed?’

‘Yes,’ I said. It was true. That bedroom, niche-like and narrow as a monastic cell, had not been dried or heated in 500 years. When I returned to it from some of our food and wine, it seemed a curious example of the mixture of luxury and bizarre discomfort in which the college lived. Yet, in time, one missed the contrast between the warmth in bed and the frigid air one breathed, and it was not so easy to sleep elsewhere.

I put off ringing up the Lodge until the middle of the morning, but at last I did so. I asked for Lady Muriel (the Master came from a Scottish professional family; in middle age he married the daughter of an earl), and soon heard her voice. It was firm and loud. ‘We shall be glad to see you, Mr Eliot. And I know my husband will be.’

I walked across the court to the Lodge, and in the drawing-room found Joan, the Royces’ daughter. She interrupted me, as I tried to sympathize. She said: ‘The worst thing is this make-believe. Why don’t they tell him the truth?’

She was nearly twenty. In girlhood her face had been sullen; she was strong and clever, and longed only to be pretty, But now she was just at the age when the heaviness was lifting, and all but she could see that her good looks would soon show through.

That morning she was frowning in her distress. She was so direct that it was harder to comfort her.

Her mother entered; the thick upright figure bore towards us over the deep carpet, past the Chinese screens, past the Queen Anne chairs, past the lavish bric-a-brac of the long and ornate drawing-room.

‘Good morning, Mr Eliot. I know that we all wish this were a happier occasion.’

Her manner was authoritative and composed, her eyes looked steadily into mine. They were tawny, full and bold; in their boldness lay a curious innocence.

‘I only learned late last night,’ I said. ‘I did not want to bother you then.’

‘We only learned ourselves before dinner,’ said Lady Muriel. ‘We had not expected anything so drastic. There was a great deal to decide in a short time.’

‘I cannot think of anything I can do,’ I said. ‘But if there is—’

‘You are very kind, Mr Eliot. The college is being most kind. There may be matters connected with my husband’s manuscripts where Roy Calvert could help us. In the meantime, you can do one great service. I hope you’ve already been told that my husband does not realize the true position. He believes that the doctors have overhauled him and found him pretty sound. He has been told that he has the trace of an ulcer, and he believes he will soon be well. I ask you to think before every word, so that you leave him with the same conviction.’

‘It won’t be easy, Lady Muriel,’ I said. ‘But I’ll try.’

‘You will understand that I am already acting as I ask you to act. It is not easy for me.’

There was grandeur in her ramrod back. She did not give an inch. ‘I am positive,’ she said, ‘that we are doing right. It is the last comfort we can give him. He can have a month or two in peace.’

‘I completely disagree,’ Joan cried. ‘Do you think comfort is all he wants? Do you think he would take comfort at that price?’

‘My dear Joan. I have listened to your views—’

‘Then for God’s sake don’t go on with this farce.’ The girl was torn with feeling, the cry welled out of her. ‘Give him his dignity back.’

‘His dignity is safe,’ said Lady Muriel. She got up. ‘I must apologize to you, Mr Eliot, for forcing a family disagreement upon you. You will not wish to hear more of it. Perhaps you would care to see the Master now.’

As I followed Lady Muriel upstairs, I thought about her; how she was strong and unperceptive, snobbish and coarse-fibred, downright and brave. Beneath the brassy front there lingered still an inarticulate desire for affection. But she had not the insight to see why, even in her own family, she threw it away.

She went before me into the bedroom, which was as wide, and nearly as long, as the drawing-room below. Her words rang loudly in the great room. ‘Mr Eliot has come to pay you a visit. I’ll leave you together.’

‘This is nice of you,’ came the Master’s voice from the bed. It sounded exactly as I had last heard it, before his illness — brisk, cheerful, intimate. It sounded like the voice of a gay and healthy man.

‘I’ve told Mr Eliot that you ought to be back at college meetings by the end of term. But he mustn’t tire you this morning.’ Lady Muriel spoke in the same tone to me. ‘I shall leave you with the Master for half an hour.’

She left us. ‘Do come and sit down,’ said the Master, and I brought a chair by the bedside. He was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, where there was embossed a gigantic coloured bas-relief of the college arms. He looked a little thinner, but the cheeks were still full; his dark hair was only just turning grey over the ears, his comely face was little lined, his lips were fresh. He was sixty-two, but that morning he looked much younger. He was in extraordinarily high spirits.

‘It is a relief, you know,’ he said. ‘I’d imagined this might be something with an unpleasant end. I may have told you that I don’t think much of doctors — but I distinctly enjoyed their conversation last night.’

He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I feel a little more tired than you’d imagine. But I take it that’s natural, after those people have been rummaging about. And I suppose this ulcer has been tiring me and taking away my appetite. I’ve got to lie here while it heals. I expect to get a little stronger every day.’

‘You may get some intermissions.’ From my chair I could see over the high bed rail, out of the single window; from the bed there was no view but the cloudless sky, but I could see most of the court under snow. My eyes stayed there. ‘You mustn’t worry too much if you have setbacks.’