Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

It was just possible that he did not know that Anstruther-Barratt was receiving an honorary degree. Chrystal must have thought it possible, for, looking on in consternation, he tried to break in.

“Calvert, I suppose you know—”

“Is it the first time?” Roy fixed the bold protruding eyes with a gaze brilliant, steady, acute, from which they seemed unable to escape.

“Of course it is. One doesn’t—”

“Just so. It’s natural for you to be nervous,” said Roy. “Everyone’s nervous when they’re trying something for the first time. But you know, you’re lucky, being a medical — I hope I’m right in thinking you are a medical?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter so much, does it? There’s nothing so fatal about it.”

Anstruther-Barratt looked badgered and bewildered. This young man appeared to think that he was a medical student up for an examination. He burst out: “Don’t you think I look a bit old to be—”

“Oh no,” said Roy. “It makes you much more nervous. You need to look after yourself more than you would have done twenty years ago. You oughtn’t to do any work between now and Friday, you know. It’s never worth while, looking at books at the last minute.”

“I wish you’d understand that I haven’t looked at books for years, young man.”

“Calvert,” Chrystal began again.

“You’ve done much more than you think,” said Roy soothingly. “Everyone feels as you do when it comes to the last day.”

“Nonsense. I tell you—”

“You must believe me. It’s not nonsense. We’ve all been through it.” Roy gave him a gentle, serious smile. “You ought to spend the day on the river tomorrow. And don’t worry too much. Then go in and win on Friday. We’ll look out for your name in the Reporter .”

Roy’s antic at the end of the feast meant more delay for Brown. He had listened to an indignant outburst from his old ally Chrystal, who was, like so many people, mystified by Roy’s manner. “I don’t know,” Chrystal snapped. “He may have thought Barratt was an old man who was trying to get qualified. In that case he’s a born bloody fool. Or it may be his idea of a joke. But I don’t want that sort of joke made by a fellow of this college. I tell you, Barratt was right up in the air about it. He earns £20,000 a year if he earns a penny, and he’s not used to being made an exhibition of.”

It did not seem as though anything could make Chrystal vote for Roy now, and Brown had to change his tactics. “It’s an infernal nuisance,” he said. “I should almost feel justified in washing my hands of the whole business. I wish you’d keep Calvert in order, the damned ass.”

But, though Brown was annoyed because his particular craft was being interfered with, he was secretly amused; and, like the born politician he was, he did not waste time thinking of opportunity lost. He was committed to getting Calvert in. He believed he was backing a great talent, he had a stubborn and unshakable affection for Roy (behind Brown’s comfortable flesh there was a deep sympathy with the wild), and with all the firmness of his obstinate nature he started on a new plan. Wait for the absentee to return in October: then invite down to the college the only two men in England who were authorities on Roy’s work. “It’s a risk,” said Brown in a minatory voice. “Some people may feel we’re using unfair influence. It’s one thing to write for opinions, it’s quite another to produce the old gentlemen themselves. But I’m anxious to give Getliffe something to think about. Our friends mustn’t be allowed to flatter themselves that we’ve shot our bolt.”

So, in the first week of the Michaelmas term, one of the customary college notes went out: “Those fellows who are interested in Mr R C E Calvert’s candidature may like to know that Sir Oulstone Lyall and Colonel E St G Foulkes, the chief authorities on Mr Calvert’s subject, will be my guests in hall on Sunday night. A B.”

The Master, after talking to Brown, thought it politic not to dine in hall that Sunday night; none of the old men came, though it was by now certain that the two seniors would vote for Roy; Despard-Smith had said, in a solemn grating voice the night before, that he had ordered cold supper for himself in his rooms. Winslow was the next in seniority, and he presided with his own cultivated rudeness.

“It’s a most remarkable occasion that we should have you two distinguished visitors,” he said as soon as dinner began. “We appear to owe this remarkable occasion to the initiative of our worthy Mr Brown.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Foulkes undiplomatically. “We’ve come to talk about Calvert.”

He was in his sixties, but neither his black hair nor his thick, downcurling, ginger moustache showed any grey at all. His cheeks were rubicund, his eyes a bright and startled brown. He always answered at extreme speed, as though the questions were reflected instantaneously off the front of his head. Action came more easily than reflection, one felt as soon as one heard him — and hot-tempered explosions a good deal more easily than comfortable argument. Yet he was fond of explaining the profound difference Yoga had meant in giving him peace beyond this world, since his time in the Indian Army. India had also led him to the study of the early Persian languages, as well as to Yoga — and everyone agreed that he was a fine scholar. He held a great many cranky interests at once, and at heart was fervent, wondering, and very simple.

“Indeed,” said Winslow. “Yes, I remember that we were promised the benefit of your judgment. I had a faint feeling, though, that we had already seen your opinion on paper about this young man. I may be stupid, I’m very ignorant about these things. But I seem to recall that the Master circulated what some of my colleagues would probably call a ‘dossier’.”

“Does no harm to say it twice,” said Colonel Foulkes at once. “You can’t do better.”

“If you please?”

“You can’t do better than Calvert. Impossible to get a better man.”

“It’s most interesting,” said Winslow, “to hear such a favourable opinion.”

“Not just my opinion,” said Colonel Foulkes. “Everyone agrees who’s competent to give one. Listen to Lyall.”

Sir Oulstone Lyall inclined his high, bald, domed head towards Winslow. He wore an impersonal, official, ambassadorial smile. He was used to being the spokesman for Central Asian history. He did it with a lofty gratification and self-esteem. It was noticeable that Foulkes deferred to him with admiration and respect.

“I must begin by covering myself under a warning, Mr President,” said Sir Oulstone in measured tones. “We all try to keep our sense of perspective, but it’s straining humanity not to exaggerate the importance of the subject to which one has devoted one’s small abilities for most of one’s life.”

Heads were nodded. The table was used to this kind of public approach. They could stand more pomp than most bodies of men.

“I must make that qualification,” said Sir Oulstone without any sign of hurry. “I may have a certain partiality for the studies with which I have associated for longer than I sometimes care to think. But, if you will kindly allow for that partiality, I may be able to assist you about Mr Calvert.” He paused. “I think I can say, with a full sense of responsibility, that among the younger workers Mr Calvert is the chief hope that our studies now possess.”

It never occurred to Sir Oulstone that the college might dispute his judgment. For a time, his confidence had a hypnotic effect on all there, and on Brown’s face there grew a comfortable, appreciative smile. Even Winslow did not produce a caustic remark, and it was left for Francis Getliffe to cross-examine Sir Oulstone about his detailed knowledge of Roy’s work. Francis, who was a precise and accurate man, knew that all Roy’s published work was linguistic — and he was right in thinking that Sir Oulstone was a historian, not a linguist at all. But Sir Oulstone was quite unperturbed by the questions: he turned to Foulkes, with the manner of one whistling up a technical assistant, and said with unshaken confidence: “Foulkes, I should like you to deal with that interesting point.” And Foulkes was off the mark at once.