Charles Snow - The Masters

‘Gratitude isn’t an emotion,’ he said, watching the human comedy. ‘But the expectation of gratitude is a very lively one.’

His mind was very active, but began to leap from point to point.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Did they think I was going to die before this?’

‘Yes.’

‘They expected to get the election over before next academic year?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled .

Soon after his mind began to wander, and I had to remind him about his message. Setting his will, his thoughts drifting, he forced himself to remember. At last it came back. He talked of Roy Calvert, his protégé and pupil, who had already outstripped him. He praised Roy’s work. He wanted me to promise to look after him.

At the beginning of October, the great red leaves of Virginia creeper flamed on the walls and blew opulently about the court. In the garden the leaves blazed on the trees. The mornings were misty, the days bright in a golden haze; in the evenings, the lights in the streets and the college were aureoled in the autumnal mists. In the evenings, a light still shone from the great bedroom of the Lodge.

The fellows came back from their September holidays: the freshmen waited in queues on Brown’s staircase and walked round the courts in search of Jago’s house. The college became noisy, the street trilled with cycle bells as young men rode off to games in the afternoon. High table filled up: Brown presented a bottle to greet the new academic year: the whole society had returned to residence, except for Pilbrow and Roy Calvert.

It was only a few days later that Roy Calvert came back. He ran up my staircase one afternoon, looking very well. He had been free of depression since June, often he had managed to forget it. I had never seen him so settled. He was anxious to amuse me, concerned to help Brown and his other friends, eager to intrigue for Jago.

Tension in the college soon mounted again. Winslow had recovered some of his bite, and Nightingale ground away at his attacks with the stamina of a passion. Whispers, rumours, scandals, came to us at second- or third-hand. Roy Calvert figured in them less than in the summer; his actual presence as he was that autumn, equable, full of high spirits, prepared to devote himself to the shyest diner at high table, seemed to take away their sting — though once or twice I saw Winslow regarding him with a caustic glance. But the slanders were fuller than ever of ‘that impossible woman’. Nightingale had the intuitive sense of propaganda that one sometimes finds in obsessed men; he knew how to reiterate that phrase, smiling it out when anyone else would have got tired; gradually all his outcries gathered round her. Even the sober members of his side, like Winslow and Francis Getliffe, were heard to say ‘it’s unthinkable to have that woman in the Lodge’, and Brown and Chrystal were perturbed in private and did not know how to reply.

Brown, Roy, and I considered how to stop every hole by which these slanders might get through to Jago. We were as thorough as we knew how to be; but there were nights when Jago sat silently in hall, his face white, ravaged. The long anxiety had worn him down, his outbursts of nervous emotion were more unpredictable. But it was the sight of him, his face engraved with his own thoughts, intolerably vulnerable, that distressed us most.

Did he know what was being said? Neither Roy nor I had any doubt.

The Master was spending more time asleep now; one still saw his room lit up when one came back to college on those hazy October nights under the serene and brilliant moon. An Indian summer had visited the town, and the buildings rested in the warmth. It made Jago’s pallor more visible, as he walked through an evening so tranquil that the lines of the palladian building seemed to quiver in the haze.

It was strange to leave the combination room, and walk into such an evening. But the strain was growing more acute. There had been only one action which took away from it in the slightest; Francis Getliffe had been as good as his word, and, by what means I did not know, had stopped the threats to Luke.

One night when Brown and I were both dining, Chrystal sharply asked if we could spare half an hour after hall. Brown and I each looked at him; we knew from his expression that he had something active to propose. I thought Brown even at that moment was a shade uneasy; but he took us to his rooms, and opened a bottle of hock, saying: ‘I’ve a feeling it will be rather refreshing in this weather.’

He went on to talk of Sir Horace. At the end of the long vacation, they had persevered with schemes to get in touch with him again; finally they settled that Brown should write a letter, telling Sir Horace that they had been discussing his nephew’s future and wondered whether it would not be wise for him to have a fourth year — ‘not necessarily reading for a Tripos’ — Brown said he could not endure that risk again. This letter had been sent and evoked several telephone calls from Sir Horace. For once they had got him undecided. He nearly sent the young man back, and then thought again; in the end he decided against, but there was a long telephone conversation, thanks of unprecedented cordiality, and a half-promise to visit the college during the winter.

Brown was willing to speculate on that visit, but for the first time Chrystal brushed all talk of Sir Horace aside.

‘We’ve shot our bolt there. It’s up to him now,’ he said. ‘I want to hear your views about this mess we’re in.’

‘You mean we haven’t succeeded in making things safe for Jago?’

‘It’s not our fault. I don’t accept any blame,’ said Chrystal. ‘But we’re in a mess.’

‘Well,’ said Brown. ‘We’ve still got a lead of one. It’s 6–5 providing Pilbrow troubles to come back. There’s always a chance we might win someone over at the last minute. I’ve always thought there might be a chance with Gay.’

‘I didn’t get any change from him. I regard him as fixed,’ said Chrystal.

‘Well, then, it’s 6–5.’

‘And 6–5 is stalemate. It’s lamentable.’

‘I’m certain our wisest course,’ said Brown firmly, determined to get in first, ‘is to sit tight and see how things pan out. Funny things may happen before we actually get into the chapel. I know it’s a confounded nuisance, but we’ve got to sit tight and have some patience. We’re not in such a bad position.’

‘I don’t agree,’ said Chrystal. ‘The place is more like a beargarden than ever. And it’s stalemate. I don’t see how you can hope to make any progress.’

‘It’s worth trying Gay again,’ I said.

‘You’ll be wasting your time. I rule him out,’ said Chrystal.

‘At the very last,’ I said, ‘we ought to try old Despard. We haven’t shown our hand completely.’

‘You can try,’ said Chrystal with scorn.

He went on: ‘I see it like this. The present position is the best we can hope for. We may lose a vote. We shan’t gain one. Do you take me up on that? We can’t expect anything better than the present voting.’

‘I don’t admit that it’s certain,’ said Brown, ‘but I should regard it as a probability.’

I agreed.

‘I’m glad you see it the same way,’ said Chrystal. ‘Where does it get us?’

‘If the voting does stay in the present position,’ Brown replied, ‘and I admit we haven’t any right to expect better, then the decision goes to the Visitor, of course.’

By statute, if the fellows could not find a clear majority of their number for one candidate, it was left for the Visitor to appoint. The Visitor had always been, right back to the foundation, the bishop of a northern diocese. I was sure, by the way, that Brown and Chrystal must have thought of this possibility as soon as Jago’s majority was broken. I had myself at moments, though it took time for any of us to believe that a stalemate was the likely end.