Charles Snow - The Masters

All of us were waiting for a concrete bargain. Sir Horace, however, was willing to let a talk like this fade inconclusively away. He said: ‘Well, I can’t tell you how valuable I’ve found it to have all your opinions. It’s most stimulating, I hope you agree with me? It gives us all plenty to think about.’

He relished the power of giving or withholding money. It was always a wrench for him to relinquish it. He liked men waiting on him for a decision. There was sometimes a hidden chuckle beneath the anticlimax. Like Chrystal, he loved the feel of power.

It was after two o’clock, but he returned happily to the talk on education. He had great stamina and no sense of time, and another hour passed before he thought of bed.

When I went into my sitting-room next morning, half an hour before my usual time, there was Sir Horace, bright and trim and ready for his breakfast. He had had less than five hours’ sleep, but he was as conversational as ever. He referred to our common acquaintances, such as Francis Getliffe’s brother; he asked questions about the men he had met the night before. He was much taken with Jago. ‘There’s an unusual man,’ said Sir Horace. ‘Anyone could see that in five minutes. Remarkable head he’s got. Will he be your next Master?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Brown and Chrystal want him, don’t they?’

I said yes.

‘Good chaps, those.’ Sir Horace paused. ‘If they were in industry they’d drive a hard bargain.’

I put in the thin edge of a question. But, though he had begun the day so talkative and affable, Sir Horace was no more communicative than the night before. His intention became masked at once in a loquacious stream about how much his nephew owed to Brown’s tutoring. ‘I want him to get an honours degree. I don’t believe these places ought to be open to the comfortably off, unless the comfortably off can profit by them,’ said Sir Horace, surprisingly unless one knew his streak of unorganized radicalism. ‘I hope you agree with me? If this boy doesn’t get his honours degree, I shall cross off the experiment as a failure. But he’d never have touched it if it hadn’t been for Brown. I’ll tell you frankly, Mr Eliot, there have been times when I wished the boy didn’t require so much help on the examination side.’

We had not long finished breakfast when Roy Calvert came in. They had met for a moment after the feast. Sir Horace was automatically cordial. Then he went to the window, and looked out at the court, lit by the mild sunshine of a February morning.

‘How peaceful it all is,’ Sir Horace observed. ‘You don’t realize what a temptation it would be to quit the rough-and-tumble and settle down here in peace.’

He smiled with his puzzled, lost, friendly look, and Roy smiled back, his eyes glinting with fun.

‘I don’t think we do,’ said Roy. ‘I’ll change with you, Sir Horace.’

‘You wouldn’t get such peace.’

‘I don’t know. Are some of your colleagues on speaking terms? Ours just manage it. Should you call that specially peaceful?’

Sir Horace laughed uneasily; he was not used to affectionate malice from young men half his age. But he had an eye for quality. Up to that moment he had placed Roy as an ornament and a flâneur ; now he captured his interest, just as Jago had done. He began asking Roy about his work. He was mystified by most of Roy’s explanation, but he felt something here that he had not met. I saw him studying Roy’s face when it was not smiling.

Soon he was asking if he could be shown Roy’s manuscripts. They went off together, and I did not see them until midday. Then Roy ran up the stairs to say that the ‘old boy’ was going; he fetched Brown and Chrystal and we all met at the side door of the college, where the car was garaged. The chauffeur had just arrived, and Sir Horace was standing by the car in a tremendous fur coat, looking like an Imperial Russian general.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not seen anything of you this morning, Mr Chrystal,’ said Sir Horace. ‘I’ve had a very interesting time looking at Mr Calvert’s wonderful things. There were several points last night I should like to explore with you again, you know what I mean? I very much hope we shall have the opportunity some time.’

The car drove off, Sir Horace waving cordially. As it turned out of sight, Roy Calvert asked: ‘Is he going to unbelt?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Chrystal. He added loyally: ‘Of course, men in his position have to make a hundred decisions a day. I expect he looks on this as very small beer — and just puts it off until he’s got important things finished. It’s unfortunate for us.’

‘I’m not giving up hope yet,’ said Brown, robust against disappointment. ‘I can’t believe he’d lead us up the garden path.’

‘It would be funny if he did,’ said Roy. ‘And took a series of dinners off us. Never getting to the point.’

‘I don’t call that funny, Calvert,’ Chrystal said irritably.

‘I believe it may come right,’ said Brown. He added, in a hurry: ‘Mind you, I shan’t feel inclined to celebrate until I see a cheque arrive on the bursary table.’ He said aside to Chrystal: ‘We’ve just got to think of ways and means again. I should be in favour of letting him lie fallow for a month or two. In the meantime, we shall have time to consider methods of giving him a gentle prod.’

The sky was cloudless and china-blue, there was scarcely a breath of wind. The sun was just perceptibly warm on the skin, and we thought of taking a turn round the garden before lunch. Roy Calvert and Chrystal went in front. They were talking about investments. Roy was the only child of a rich man, and Chrystal liked talking to him about money. Brown and I followed on behind. Our way to the garden was overlooked by the windows of the tutor’s house, and as we walked I heard my name called in Jago’s voice.

I stayed on the path, Brown strolled slowly on. Jago came out from his house — and with him was Nightingale.

‘Can you spare us a moment, Eliot?’ Jago cried. His tone was apologetic, almost hostile.

‘Of course.’

‘Nightingale and I have been discussing the future of the college. Naturally, we all think the future of the college depends on the men we attract to college offices.’ Jago’s words were elaborate, his mouth drawn down, his eyes restless. ‘So that we’ve been speculating a little on which of our colleagues might consider taking various college offices.’

‘These things have a way of being settled in advance,’ said Nightingale.

‘I hope it doesn’t embarrass you to mention your own future,’ Jago had to go on.

‘Not in the slightest,’ I said.

‘I know it’s difficult. No one can pledge themselves too far ahead. But I’ve just been telling Nightingale that, so far as I know, you wouldn’t feel free to think of a college office in the next few years.’

‘I shouldn’t. I can be ruled out,’ I said.

‘Why? Why can we rule you out?’ Nightingale broke out in suspicion.

I had to give a reason for Jago’s sake.

‘Because I don’t want to break my London connection. I can’t spend two days a week in London and hold an office here.’

‘Your two days must be exceptionally well paid.’ Nightingale smiled.

‘It’s valuable for the college,’ said Jago with an effort to sound undisturbed, ‘to have its young lawyers taught by a man with a successful practice.’

‘It seems to be rather valuable for Eliot,’ Nightingale smiled again. But his suspicions had temporarily abated, and he parted from us.

‘Good God,’ muttered Jago, as Nightingale disappeared at the bottom of his staircase.

‘I hope you contained yourself,’ said Brown, who had been waiting for us to join him. We all three walked towards the garden.