Charles Snow - The Masters

‘If the others wish to continue with their discussion,’ he said, ‘I think we must remove ourselves. There is nothing left for us to add.’

‘I agree,’ said Crawford, and they left the room.

We listened to their footsteps down the stairs. Chrystal said sharply to Despard-Smith: ‘I should like to hear what other people think.’

There was a pause. Pilbrow burst out that he was solid for Crawford, despite the lateness of his change, for reasons some of us knew. Another pause. Nightingale said with a smile that he would never vote for anyone but Crawford. Then Brown spoke, and during his whole speech his gaze did not leave Chrystal.

‘I’m glad to have this opportunity of explaining to most of the college,’ he said, ‘that I think we’re in danger of making a terrible mistake. Some people already know the strength of my views, but perhaps those of our number who support Crawford have not heard them. I should like to assure them that I believe Jago will be the best possible Master for the college, and I believe it with more absolute certainty than I have ever felt on such an occasion. Any departure from Jago would be a loss that the college might not be able to recover from for many years. During the rest of my time here, I should not be able to forget it.’

Everyone was looking at him and Chrystal. Many were puzzled, they did not know what was going on. Some saw the struggle clear. Yet everyone was looking at those two faces, the benign one, now flushed with anger, and the domineering.

No one spoke. Chrystal was regarding Brown as though there were a question to ask: there came an almost pathetic smile on Chrystal’s firm mouth.

Suddenly Chrystal looked away.

‘We’re not getting far,’ he said with a harsh, curt bravado. ‘I believe several of us are not satisfied with either candidate. Some of us never have been. I can speak out now they’ve gone. There’s something to be said for Jago: I’ve been resigned to voting for him, as you all know. There’s something to be said for Crawford: I’ve seen things in him lately that I like, and I understand his supporters’ point of view. But we’re not tied to either of them. I believe that’s the way out.’

‘What are you proposing?’ said Despard-Smith.

‘I want to bring it to a head,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m ready to form a cave. Will any of you join me? I should like to find another man altogether.’

‘I wanted to bring it to a head,’ Chrystal said again. ‘I should like to find another man altogether. This is the time. We might get somewhere tonight.’

He leaned forward over the table, with an eager, alert, dominating smile.

There was a shuffle of feet, a cough, the squeak of someone’s finger on the table top. Some moments passed, and then Pilbrow got to his feet.

‘I don’t think it’s any good my staying, Despard,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to find another man, which I suppose you are, I don’t want to run away, but… I know I’ve wobbled disgracefully, but I don’t feel like changing again. I’m content as I am.’

He had not left the room when Nightingale began talking. He was so excited that he had no politeness left.

‘I always said it would happen. I always knew that that precious clique wouldn’t let well alone. They were bound to put up one of themselves in the long run.’

‘Are you going to stay, Nightingale?’ said Despard-Smith bleakly. ‘If you stay, you will hear what names are being discussed.’

‘Stay!’ Nightingale smiled. ‘Do you think I want to hear the names? I could tell you them now.’

As he closed the door, Roy commented: ‘I’ll bet anyone that he rings up Crawford within five minutes.’ Solidly, heavily, Brown stood by the table, looking down on those of us still there.

‘I can’t see my way to remaining in this discussion,’ he said to Despard-Smith. ‘I’ve gone as far as I can to turn you all from it. In my judgement, it is completely ill-considered, and I should have nothing useful to add if I stayed with you.’

He gave Chrystal one glance, angry, troubled, unwavering, yet steady and still intimate: he walked out, and we heard his deliberate tread down the stairs.

Chrystal was frowning — but he shrugged his shoulders and said, with confidence and zest: ‘It’s time to get down to it.’

There were only six of us now sitting round the table, Chrystal himself, Despard-Smith, Winslow, Francis Getliffe, Roy Calvert and I. It was not a good beginning for Chrystal: even if he could persuade us all, he still needed another for a majority. But his confidence was extreme, his energy flowed out just as when he had made us coerce the candidates in October. When someone mentioned that we were not much of a cave, Chrystal said: ‘I don’t mind that. We can bring others in. There’s Luke. There’s even Crawford. And the others — they may not want to stay out in the cold.’

Promptly he brought out his first candidate.

‘I’m not going to be coy,’ he said. ‘I have someone in mind. In my view the time has come to look outside the college. I want you to think of Lyon.’

Most of us knew Lyon; he was a Reader, a fellow of another college, a man of good academic standing and a bit of a university politician. In a few minutes it was apparent that he would get no support. We all gave reasons for half-heartedness — but the reasons were a matter of courtesy, a way of saying we were not disposed to fall in.

Chrystal, still undeterred, canvassed another name, also from outside the college, and then another. Different reasons were brought against them, but there was never a chance that either would be looked at: at the sound of each name, everyone there was saying no. It was not that we had anything special against them; simply, we did not want to find them suitable. By now I was sure that Chrystal would get nowhere. I had seen him in October carry us, by sheer force of will, into dragooning the candidates to vote for each other. But then we had all been ready to be convinced, and now the reverse was true. He was exuding just as much will, and few men had more than Chrystal. But in our hearts we were not persuadable; and in all the moves of politics, dexterity is meaningless, even will itself does not avail, unless there is some spot in one’s opponent ready to be convinced. ‘Most reluctantly,’ said Despard-Smith, after we had discussed the third name, ‘I am coming to the conclusion, Dean, that it is too late in the day to look outside the college.’

‘I accept that for the moment, Despard,’ said Chrystal, still brisk and good-tempered. ‘But we’ve not finished. In that case we must look inside.’

It was late at night, the room was hot, smoke was spinning slowly under the light: the older men were sleepy, and once Winslow’s eyes had closed. But, at the sound of that last remark, they were awake, vigilant, ready once more for the long cautious guarded talk. Winslow lit his pipe again; as the match flared, a trick of the shadows smoothed out the nutcracker lines of nose and chin, and his eyes gleamed, deep, bright — and anxious. Yes, anxious. Was there still a remnant of hope? ‘We must look inside,’ said Chrystal.

‘Of course,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘all of us gave serious thought to the possibilities when we heard the disastrous news last spring. Or if we didn’t we were very seriously negligent.’

‘Never mind,’ said Chrystal. ‘I want to go over them once more. We shan’t get the chance again. It’s no use having second thoughts after Thursday.’

‘Some of us,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘are always coming to bolt the stable door after the horse has f-flown.’