Charles Snow - The Light and the Dark

It did not vary meeting by meeting. Nor indeed did the business itself, when the half hour struck, and the Master, brisk, polite, quick-witted, called us to our places, asked for the minutes, said his opening word about the day’s proceedings. For by tradition the day’s proceedings had to begin first with any questions of college livings and second with financial business. That afternoon there was only a report that someone was considering a call to the one vacant living (“he’ll take it,” said Despard-Smith bleakly): but when the Master, so used to these affairs that his courtesy was second nature, his impatience long since dulled, asked: “Bursar, have you any business for us?” Winslow replied: “If you please, Master. If you please.” We listened to a long account of the difficulty of collecting rents from some of the college farms. We then heard the problem of the lease of one of the Cambridge shops, and discussed how to buy a house owned by another college, which was desirable in order to rectify an unstrategic frontier. It was routine, it was quite unselfconscious, it was what we were used to: it only happened that I could have dispensed with it that afternoon, that was all.

As usual, the financial business tailed away about half-past five. The Master, completely fresh, looked round the table. It was a gift of his to seem formal, and yet natural and relaxed.

“That seems to bring us to our main business, gentlemen,” he said. “As will be familiar to you, we have appointed today for the election of a fellow. I suggest we follow the custom that is becoming habitual — though it wasn’t so when I was a junior fellow” — he smiled at some of the older men, as though there was a story to be told later — “and have a straw vote first, to see if we can reach a majority for any candidate. After that, we will proceed to a formal vote, in which we have been known to put on a somewhat greater appearance of agreement.”

There were a few suppressed smiles.

“Well,” said the Master, “the college is well aware of my own position. I thought it right and proper — in fact I felt obliged — to bring up the name of Mr R C E Calvert for consideration. I have told the college, no doubt at excessive length, that in my own view Mr Calvert is our strongest candidate for years past. The college will be familiar with the written reports on his work, and I understand that some fellows had the opportunity of meeting Sir Oulstone Lyall and Colonel Foulkes in person, who probably expressed to them, as they have expressed to me, their opinions upon Mr Calvert.” For a second a slight smile crossed the Master’s face. “The whole case has been explored, if I may say so, with praiseworthy thoroughness. I seem to recall certain discussions in this room and elsewhere. I do not know whether the college now feels that it has heard enough to vote straightaway, or whether there are some fellows who would prefer to examine the question further.”

“If you please, Master,” began Winslow.

“I am afraid that I should consider it rushing things,” said Despard-Smith, at the same moment.

“You wish for a discussion, Bursar?” said the Master, his colour a shade higher, but still courteous.

“Seniores priores,” Winslow said, inclining his head to Despard-Smith.

“Mr Despard-Smith?” said the Master.

“Master,” Despard-Smith gazed down the table with impressive gloom, “I am afraid that I must impress upon the college the d-disastrous consequences of a risky election. The consequences may be worse than disastrous, they may be positively catastrophic. I must tell the college that my doubts about Mr Calvert are very far from being removed. With great respect, Master, I am compelled to say that nothing I have yet heard has even begun to remove my doubts. I need not tell the college that nothing would please me more than being able conscientiously to support Mr Calvert. But, as I am at present s-situated, I should be forsaking my duty if I did not raise my doubts at this critical juncture.”

“We should all be grateful,” said the Master formally.

“It is a thankless task,” said Despard-Smith, with sombre relish, “but I feel it is in the man’s own best interests. First of all, I am compelled to ask whether any of Mr Calvert’s sponsors can reassure me on this point: if he were to be elected, would he take his share of the” — Despard-Smith stuttered, and then produced one of his descents into solemn anti-climax — “the bread-and-butter work of the college? I cannot see Mr Calvert doing his honest share of the bread-and-butter work, and a college of this size cannot carry passengers.”

“Perhaps I might answer that, Master?” said Arthur Brown, bland, vigilant, his tone conciliatory, stubbornly prepared to argue all through the night.

The Master was glad to hear him.

“Anyone who knows Mr Calvert,” said Brown roundly, “could feel no shadow of doubt about his willingness to undertake any duties the college put upon him. Put it another way: he would never let us down, whatever we asked him to do. But I must reply to Mr Despard-Smith that I myself, and I feel sure I am speaking for several fellows, would feel very dubious about the wisdom of our asking Mr Calvert to undertake these bread-and-butter duties. If he is as good at his research work as some of us are inclined to think he should not be encumbered with more pedestrian activities. We can always find willing horses among ourselves to carry out the more pedestrian activities. As for Mr Calvert, I should be inclined to say that I don’t expect a nightingale to crack nuts.”

Despard-Smith shook his head. He went on: “Many of us have to sacrifice our own interests for the college. I do not see why this young man should be an exception. I am also compelled to ask a second question, to which I attach even more serious importance. Is Mr Calvert sound enough in character to measure up to his responsibilities? We demand from our fellows a high standard of character. It will be scandalous if we ever cease to. It will be the beginning of the end. Speaking from many years’ judgment of men, I cannot conceal grave doubts as to whether Mr Calvert’s character has developed sufficiently to come up to our high standard.”

It was as open as the conventions allowed. All his life Despard-Smith had been used to damning people at this table by the solemn unspoken doubt. And the debate stayed at that level, full of anger, misunderstandings, personal imperialisms, often echoes of echoes that biased men for or against Roy, that made it urgent for them to vote him in or out that afternoon. For an instant, through my fret and anxiety, I thought this was how all humans judged each other. Lightweight, said one. Dilettante, said another (which I said was the least true comment I could imagine). Charming and modest, said one of the old men, who liked his looks. “At any rate, he’s not prosaic,” declared Jago, the Senior Tutor, the dramatic and brilliant, the most striking figure in the college. Chrystal, out of loyalty to Brown, did not discuss the incident at the feast, but said he intended to reserve judgment. Conceited and standoffish, said someone. Brown met all the opinions imperturbably, softened them when he could, gave a picture of Roy — quiet, devoted to his work, anxious to become a don in the old style. The Master’s politeness did not leave him, though it was strained as he heard some of the criticisms; he stayed quick and alert in the chair, and repressed all his sarcasms until the name of Luke came up.

But, when it came, his sarcasm was unfortunate. After the exchange of opinions about Roy’s personality, it became clear that we could not lose that afternoon. There were twelve men present (one was still ill). Of the twelve, six had now declared themselves as immovably determined to vote for Roy in this election — the Master, Brown, Jago, myself and the two senior fellows. There were four votes against for certain, with Chrystal and Getliffe still on the fence. At this point, Winslow, who had so far only interposed a few rude comments, took over the opposition from Despard-Smith. He talked of the needs of the college, gibed at the Master by speaking contemptuously of the “somewhat exotic appeal of esoteric subjects”, and finished by saying that he would like Getliffe to “ventilate” the question of Luke. Brown greeted them both with the blandest of encouragement: it was always his tactic to be most reasonable and amiable when things were going well.