Charles Snow - The Masters

‘They won’t this time,’ said Chrystal. He stared round at us all. ‘Well, we’ve got to look inside. I’m going down the fellows in order of seniority. Gay. Pilbrow. You, Despard. The statutes won’t let us have you.’

‘I supported the new statute about the retiring age,’ said Despard-Smith solemnly. ‘I’ve often asked myself whether I did right. Some men of seventy are still competent to hold any position of responsibility—’

‘You would be,’ interrupted Chrystal. In his brusque way he was placating the old man. And he was looking two moves ahead: I thought I guessed his intention now. ‘You would be. No one doubts it. But it can’t happen.’ He paused. ‘Going on down the list.’ He added in a tone which he kept casual and matter of fact: ‘Winslow. Winslow, you’re the next.’

‘Curiously enough,’ said Winslow, also trying to be casual, ‘I was aware of that.’

‘Do you think,’ said Despard-Smith in a hurry, ‘that you’d feel satisfied to take on such an office for a very short time? I doubt whether it is fair to ask a man to take an office with only five years to run.’

‘I should actually have seven years. I was sixty-three in October,’ said Winslow.

‘You’d just learn the job. Then you’d have to go. I agree with Despard,’ said Chrystal, looking at Winslow with a bold, embarrassed smile.

‘I seriously doubt,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘whether it would be fair to ask you.’

‘When is it fair to ask anyone?’ said Roy Calvert. His eyes were glinting with mockery: he was moved for Winslow.

Before he could say more, Francis Getliffe put in: ‘On general principles, there is something to be said for a younger man. We ought to have someone with at least ten years to go. I know you’d take that view yourself, wouldn’t you?’ He spoke to Winslow directly.

Francis had got on better with Winslow than most of the college, and the question was kind. But it did not soften the fact. Winslow’s eyelids had drooped, he was staring at the table.

He said at last: ‘No doubt you’re right.’

‘I was certain you’d see it that way, Winslow,’ said Chrystal, with relief, with excessive heartiness. I was watching Roy Calvert, half-expecting him to say more: but he gave a twitch of a smile, and let it slide. It was too forlorn a hope even for him.

Chrystal proceeded down the list.

‘Crawford. Jago. Already dealt with. Brown. The next senior is Brown,’ he said. ‘Brown. I’m asking you to think carefully about him. Isn’t he the man for a compromise candidate?’

Winslow looked up for a second.

‘That’s a very remarkable suggestion, Dean,’ he said with savage sarcasm, with a flicker of his old spirit.

‘Isn’t he much too young? I don’t see how the college could possibly consider anyone so junior,’ said Despard-Smith.

‘He’s forty-seven,’ said Chrystal.

‘It’s dangerous to have young men in these positions,’ said Despard-Smith. ‘One never knows how they’ll turn out.’

‘Brown won’t alter till he dies,’ I said. It seemed strange that anyone, even Despard-Smith, should think of Brown as young.

‘I don’t think his age is a reason against him,’ said Francis Getliffe. ‘But—’

‘I know everything you’re going to say,’ said Chrystal. ‘I know all about Brown. I know him better than any one of you. He’s been my best friend since we were up together. He’s not brilliant. He’ll never set the Thames on fire. People would think it was a dim election. But there are things in Brown that you don’t see until you’ve known him for years. He’d pull the place together.’

‘My dear Dean,’ said Winslow, ‘it would mean twenty years of stodge.’

‘I should have considered,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘that if we were to take the serious step of looking at such junior fellows, we should want to consider you yourself long before Brown.’

‘I couldn’t look at it,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m not up to it. I know my limitations. I’m not fit to be Master. Brown is. I’d serve under him and think myself lucky.’

He spoke with absolute humility and honesty. It was not put on, there was none of the stately mannered mock-modesty of college proceedings. This was the humility and honesty of his heart. It was so patent that no one challenged it.

He pressed on about Brown. I said that I would prefer him to any other compromise candidate. Less warmly, Roy said that, if the first vote in chapel did not give Jago a majority, he would not mind transferring to Brown on the second turn. Francis Getliffe said that, if the first vote were a stalemate, he would consider doing the same as Roy. With that kind of backing, such as it was, Chrystal argued with the other two into the early morning: he was not touchy, he did not give way to pique, he just sat there and argued as the quarters went on chiming away the night; he sat there, strong in his physical prepotence, persuading, browbeating, exclaiming with violence, wooing and bursting into temper.

Everyone in the room but himself knew that he must fail. Winslow was mostly silent, but every word he spoke was edged with unhappy contempt. Despard-Smith was solemnly obstinate. Everyone knew but Chrystal that neither would ever consent to vote for Brown. The last hope of compromise had gone. Yet Chrystal seemed undiscouraged. By midnight the rest of us would have given it up as useless but he kept us there till after two o’clock.

At the last he won one concession through the others’ sheer fatigue. He got them to admit that Brown was the only possible third candidate.

‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘Several of us here have said they might come round to him. Do you quarrel with that, Despard?’

Despard-Smith wearily shook his head.

‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Chrystal. ‘It means that Brown must be asked whether he’ll stand. It may come to it. We can’t leave it in the air. I’ll speak to him in the morning.’

His face was fresh, he was smiling, he was obscurely satisfied. He looked at his clock on the mantelpiece.

‘I shan’t have to wait long,’ he said. ‘It is the morning already.’

Chrystal had kept us up so late that I slept until the middle of the morning. It was December 17th, a dark and stormy day: the wind was howling again, for the westerly gales had returned; it was not cold, but the heavy clouds hung over the roofs, and in the afternoon Roy and I built up the fire in my sitting-room for the sake of the blaze. We compared impressions of Chrystal’s tactics and manner on the night before. Why had he persisted against all rational sense? Why had he gone away so pleased? Was it because he wanted to prove to Brown that, whatever he did in this election, he was still completely affectionate and loyal? That was part of it, we felt sure: but we did not believe it was the end.

As we were talking across the fire, a double and deliberate knock sounded on the door. ‘Uncle Arthur in person,’ said Roy, and we both smiled as Brown came in. But Brown’s smile in return was only formal.

He sat down, looked into the fire, and said in a constrained tone: ‘I wanted to see you both. I am told that, without my consent, I was mentioned as a candidate last night. Did you have anything to do with this?’

He was grimly indignant. We told him what we had each promised. ‘I was glad to do it,’ I said. ‘I should enjoy voting for you. It would be admirable to see you in the Lodge.’

He did not respond. After a time he said: ‘I suppose you all intended it kindly.’

‘I don’t know about kindly,’ I said. ‘It was intended to show what we feel about you.’

‘I hope you all intended it kindly,’ said Brown.