Charles Snow - The Masters

The silence of the infinite spaces did not terrify him. He felt at one with the heavens; it was through them that he knew a sense of the unseen. But he only spoke of what he could observe. That night, he told me where the comet would have reached by the same time next day: how fast it was travelling: the size of its orbit: how long it would be before man saw it again.

Coming down the stairs, he was full of happiness. He was not even much excited when he saw Pilbrow’s door open and his servant lighting a fire. I went in and asked the reason, and was told that Pilbrow had sent a telegram from London, saying that he was returning by the last train.

Jago heard the servant’s answers from the landing, and I did not need to tell him that Pilbrow was coming back. ‘He’s a wonderful old boy,’ said Jago. He did not say it with emphasis; for him, the news just completed the well-being of an evening. He said a contented good-night, and walked at a leisurely pace along the path to his house. I had not seen him walk so slowly since that afternoon of our first party meeting, when he felt the Mastership lay in his hands.

Once at least he lifted his eyes to the stars.

It was well past one o’clock next morning, and I was writing by my fire, when I heard the clang of the great gate’s bell: gently once or twice, then a long impatient ring, then another. At last the porter must have woken up. I heard the opening of a door, and finally the rattle and clash as the gate was unlocked.

There were steps through the court. I wondered who had come in late, and turned back to my writing. A few minutes later, the steps sounded on my own staircase. It was Pilbrow.

‘I saw your light on my way past. I had to tidy up after the trip. I specially wanted to see you before you went to bed.’

He had burst in, looking ten years younger than his age. He was ruddily sunburned, and there were one or two patches on the top of his bald head from which the skin had peeled.

‘I had lunch in Split thirty-six hours ago. Split! Split! I like the Slavs — Absurd names. Much more absurd than the Italian names.’ He pronounced the name several times aloud, chuckling to himself. ‘Astonishing number of beautiful people. You sit in the market place and watch them… Also extremely prudish. Why do people get steadily more beautiful as you go south-east from the Brenner? The Tyrolese are lovely. The Dalmatians are better still. They also get more prudish as they get more beautiful. The Tyrolese are moderately prudish. The Dalmatians extremely… I suppose it’s a law of nature. A very stupid one too.’

I could scarcely get in a word. He had been flown most of the way home. He had been travelling for two days: his cheeks shone, he did not seem in the least tired.

Soon he said, earnestly and without introduction: ‘Eliot, things are worse in Europe than they have been in my time.’

‘You mean politically?’

‘All our friends are in danger. Everything you and I believe in is going… Our people are just sitting by and watching. And dining in the best houses. Bloody fools. Snobs. Snobbery will make this country commit suicide. These bloody snobs can’t see who their enemies are. Or who are their friends. When a country is blinding itself to that, it’s in a bad way.’

He told me of some of his doings. He had somehow managed to visit his friends in a concentration camp. He was a very brave old man. He was also an acute one, underneath the champagne-like gaiety.

‘I came to tell you,’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s why I was glad to see your light. I wanted to tell you before anyone else. I can’t vote for Jago. I can’t vote for someone who won’t throw his weight in on our side. It’s your side as well as mine. That’s why I came to tell you first…’

I was taken aback. I should not have been so surprised at the outset. I knew it had worried him, but I thought he had come to terms and satisfied himself. It would not have astonished me if he had found some reasonable excuse and stayed away. But I was not prepared for his journey home, his ebullient entry, and then this. I had not recovered myself when I asked flatly: ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Vote for the other man,’ said Pilbrow without a pause. ‘He’s on the right side. He’s always been on the right side. We can trust him in that way.’

I tried to shake off the shock, and do my best. I retraced the arguments I had had with Francis Getliffe. I searched for anything that might influence him: I told him that the three youngest fellows in the college were all supporting Jago — it was not like Pilbrow, I reproached him, to leave the side of youth. But he was obdurate — sometimes a little flustered in speech, but quite unshaken.

I tried once more.

‘You know I feel about the world as strongly as you,’ I said. ‘If that’s possible.’

Pilbrow smiled, pleased by the remark.

‘You do know, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Pilbrow replied. ‘Of course. More than any of those…’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not more than Getliffe or young Luke. But as much. Anyway, I take an even blacker view than you. I’m beginning to feel it like a personal sorrow.’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Pilbrow. ‘Things outside have got to be very bad before they make one feel like that. But they are—’

‘Even so,’ I said, ‘I can’t believe that it ought to affect us here. We’re choosing from two human beings.’ I waited, in the hope it would sink in. ‘You’ve always liked Jago, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Pilbrow at once. ‘He’s warm. He’s got a great gift of warmth.’

‘You don’t care for Crawford?’

‘I’m neutral to him,’ said Pilbrow.

‘He’s on the right side in politics,’ I said, ‘but you know very well that most of your kind of civilization he doesn’t begin to touch. If the books you’ve devoted your life to disappeared tomorrow, he wouldn’t notice the difference.’

‘No. But—’ Pilbrow’s bright brown eyes were troubled.

‘You’ve always set a value on human beings. Surely you’re not going to pass over the difference between those two? You’re saying that you’ll just vote for a programme. Are you really ready to forget what human beings mean?’

‘We’ve got to sacrifice something.’ Pilbrow had found his tongue, and spoke with vigour. ‘If we don’t sacrifice something, there’ll be nothing left at all.’

I made a last attempt.

‘You know what it means for Jago,’ I said.

‘Disappointing…’

‘You know it will be far worse than that.’

‘Yes.’

‘For you it wouldn’t have mattered much — at any time. Would it? You’re not such a diffident man as Paul Jago, you know. You couldn’t pin your self-esteem on to a job. You’ve never given a damn whether people elected you to masterships or presidencies of buffaloes’ clubs. It’s not people like you who are ambitious for positions, Eustace. It is people like Jago — who need some support from outside. And he needs it intolerably . If he doesn’t get the Mastership, it will hurt him more than anyone imagines. It won’t be just disappointing. It will break his heart.’

I added: ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Doesn’t it affect you?’

‘It’s a pity,’ said Pilbrow. ‘He’ll recover in time. They always…’ He broke off. His tone was almost light-hearted, and I knew it was no good. Then he said, with extraordinary vigour, his eyes shining like brown beads, his whole body clenched with energy: ‘I can’t bear to have anyone say that I helped the wrong side. I can’t do as much as I should like, but I shall throw in my weight wherever I can. I hope I have a few years left to do it.’

I knew it was no good. There was nothing to be done. No one could move Pilbrow now. He would vote for Crawford to the end.