Charles Snow - The Masters

I glanced at Roy. He had loved Royce: his eyes lost their sadness for a second as he heard that last singular piece of praise; there was the faint twitch of a smile on his lips.

In the even and unfaltering rain, a cavalcade of taxis rolled out to a cemetery in the suburbs, rolled past the lodging houses of Maid’s Causeway, the blank street front of the Newmarket Road. The fellows were allotted to taxis in order of seniority: Francis Getliffe, Roy Calvert, Luke and I shared the last. None of us spoke much, the heaviness rested on us, we gazed out of the streaming windows.

At the cemetery, we stood under umbrellas round the grave. Despard-Smith spoke the last words, and the earth rattled on the coffin.

We drove back, more quickly now, in the same group. The rain still pelted down without a break, but we all felt an inexplicably strong relief. We chatted with comfort, sometimes with animation: Francis Getliffe and Roy, who rarely had much to say to each other, exchanged a joke about Katherine’s father. There were wild spirits latent in each of us just then, if our conventions had given us any excuse. As it was, when the taxis drew up at the college, knots of fellows stood in the shelter of the great gate. The same pulse of energy was passing round. I expected one result to be that the truce would be broken by dinner time that night.

Actually, it took twenty-four hours for the truce to break in earnest. Then a rumour went round that Nightingale had threatened to ‘speak out’. It was certainly true that Francis Getliffe spent the afternoon arguing with Luke; I heard of the conversation from Luke himself, who could not bear to be separated for an hour from his work just then. His fresh skin had lost most of its colour, there were rings under his eyes, and he said angrily: ‘You’d have thought Getliffe was the last man in the bloody place to keep anyone away from the lab — just when the whole box of tricks may be tumbling out.’

‘You look tired,’ I said.

‘I’m not too tired to work,’ he retorted.

‘What did you tell Getliffe?’

‘Everyone else in this blasted college may change their minds twice a week,’ said young Luke, who was frantic with hope, who had anyway given up being tactful with me. ‘But I bloody well don’t.’

Francis’ attempt was fair enough, and so was another by Winslow to persuade me. Neither caused any comment, in contrast to a ‘flysheet’ which Nightingale circulated to each fellow on December 10th. In the flysheet Nightingale put down a list of Crawford’s claims to the Mastership, and ended with the sentence: ‘Mrs Crawford appears to many members of the college to be well fitted for the position of Master’s wife. This is not necessarily true of a candidate’s wife, and they attach great weight to this consideration.’

He said no more, but I was stopped in the court several times between lunch and dinner: — was this Nightingale’s final shot? was he going further? I was ready for an open scene in hall that night. Roy Calvert and I were the only members of Jago’s party dining, and Nightingale, Winslow, and Despard-Smith were sitting together. I had braced myself to take the offensive — when Jago, who had not come into hall since the Master’s death, walked in after the grace. Nightingale seemed to be waiting for a burst of fury, but there was none. Jago sat through the dinner talking quietly to me and Roy. Occasionally he spoke a civil word to Despard-Smith and Winslow. Nightingale he had come there to ignore, and not a word was spoken about the Mastership, either in hall or in the combination room.

As I was having breakfast next morning, December 11th, Brown came in, pink and businesslike.

‘I’ve been wondering whether to answer Nightingale’s latest effort,’ he said, sitting in the window seat. ‘But I’m rather inclined to leave it alone. Any reply is only likely to make bad worse. And I’ve got a sneaking hope that, now he’s started putting things on paper, he may possibly give us something to take hold of. I did sketch out a letter, but I had last minute qualms. I don’t like it, but it’s wise to leave things as they are.’

‘How are they?’ I asked.

‘I won’t pretend to you that I’m entirely comfortable,’ said Brown. ‘Though mind you it’s necessary for both of us to pretend to the other side. And perhaps’ — he looked at me — ‘it’s even more necessary to pretend to our own. But, between ourselves, things aren’t panning out as they should. I haven’t had a reply from Eustace Pilbrow. I sent off cables to every possible address within an hour after poor Royce died. And I sent off another batch yesterday. I shall believe Pilbrow is coming back to vote when I see him walking through the gate.’ He went on: ‘I had another disappointment last night. I went round with Chrystal to make another try to lobby old Gay. Well, we didn’t get any distance at all. The old boy is perfectly well up to it, but he won’t talk about anything except his responsibility for presiding over the college during the present period. He read the statutes to us again. But we didn’t begin to get anywhere.’

‘I wish you’d taken me,’ I said sharply.

‘I very much wanted to take Chrystal,’ said Brown. He saw that I was annoyed (for I did not believe they had ever been good at flattering Gay), and he spoke more frankly about his friend than at any time before. ‘I feel it’s a good idea to — keep up his interest in our campaign. He’s never been quite as enthusiastic as I should like. I have had to take it into account that he’s inclined to be temperamental.’

The telephone bell rang. Was Mr Brown with me? Mr Chrystal was trying to trace him urgently. Brown offered to go to Chrystal’s rooms; no, the Dean was already on his way up to mine.

Chrystal entered briskly, his eyes alight with purpose and the sense of action.

‘It’s a good day for the college,’ he said at once.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Brown, quick and suspicious.

‘I don’t think I’m entitled to say much more till this afternoon,’ said Chrystal. He was revelling in this secret. ‘But I can tell you that Despard-Smith received a letter from Sir Horace by the first post today. It’s very satisfactory, and that’s putting it mildly. There’s one thing that’s a bit cranky, but you’ll hear for yourselves soon enough. I’d like to tell you the whole story, but Despard showed me the letter in confidence.’

‘It sounds perfectly splendid,’ said Brown.

‘Despard didn’t see how we could do anything about it until we’d elected a Master. But I insisted that it would be lamentable to hold back the news of something as big as this,’ Chrystal said. ‘I had to tell Despard straight out that I wasn’t prepared to let that happen. If he wouldn’t summon an informal meeting himself, I would do it off my own bat.’

Brown smiled affably at his friend’s brisk triumphant air.

‘Wonderful,’ he said again.

‘That’s how we left it. I’ve got the college office running round to get hold of people for this afternoon. It shocked old Despard too much to think of having an informal meeting in the combination room.’ Chrystal gave a tough grin. ‘So it will be in my rooms. I’ve called it for 2.30. I tell you, Arthur, we’ve done something between us. It’s a good day for the college.’

When I arrived in Chrystal’s sitting-room that afternoon it was already arranged to seat the fellows, with a dozen chairs round the dining table. Ten men turned up by half-past two; Luke had gone early to the laboratory, did not return for lunch, and so no message had reached him; Gay was not there, and I suspected that Chrystal had taken care that that invitation had miscarried. We sat down round the table, all except Chrystal, who stood watching us, like a commanding officer.