Charles Snow - The Affair

I did not know how much he regretted it. He was not an introspective man and, argumentative and articulate as he was, he did not often confide. All his imagination, vitality, crude and crackling force, seemed to have become canalised into the job he had set himself, what he called “seeing that the country can earn a living”. Somehow his ambition, his scientific insight, his narrow and intense patriotism, had all fused into one.

When Francis had gone up to his rooms, Crawford asked Luke and me into the Lodge. There, in the study, after he had given us a drink, Crawford said, fingers together, gazing across the fireplace: “I think I hope you get your way about this matter, Luke; I’m not certain, but I think I hope you get your way.”

“I should damned well hope you do,” said Luke.

“No, speaking as an old-fashioned man of science, I don’t see it’s as straightforward as that,” said Crawford imperturbably. With his usual respect both for ability and position, he approved of Luke: but he wasn’t to be bulldozed when an idea was being talked about. Crawford didn’t like disagreement on “personalia”, but when it came to an idea, he remembered that he was a son of the manse and became, at about half the speed, as disputatious as Luke himself.

As they argued (Crawford kept saying “you aver that…” which I could not recall having heard anyone say before) they were enjoying themselves. I wasn’t, for I had less taste for amateur metaphysics.

Just as we were getting ready to go, Crawford remarked: “By the by, I’m afraid that I shan’t be able to be with you tomorrow.”

I said that we shouldn’t reach a decision anyway.

“As a matter of fact,” said Crawford, “I’ve got to attend to a rather troublesome piece of college business.”

“What’s that?” Luke asked. “The Howard flap, I suppose?” For once, Crawford was taken aback, Buddha-smile dissolved into an astonished fretting stare.

“I really don’t understand how you’ve heard that, Luke,” he cried.

“God love me,” Luke gave his harsh guffaw, “it’s all round the scientific world. Someone told me about it at the Ath. God knows how long ago.”

“Then I’m very distressed to hear it.”

“Never you mind.” Luke was still grinning. “You couldn’t have stopped it. Nothing’s ever going to stop scientists talking, as you ought to know. Hell, that’s what we’ve been chewing the rag about this afternoon! As soon as the boys in the Cavendish heard there was something fishy about Howard’s paper, nothing could have stopped it going round. If you ask me, you’ve been bloody lucky that it’s been kept as quiet as it has.”

“I should be very sorry to think,” said Crawford, “that anyone in the college has spoken a word outside.”

“That’s as may be,” Luke replied.

“I’ve never had the slightest indication,” Crawford went on, “that anyone in the university outside this college knows anything of the unpleasantness we’ve been through.”

“Like a bet?” said Luke.

Crawford had recovered his equilibrium. He gave a smile, melon-lipped, contented with himself. “Well,” he said, “I don’t want to say any more, but tomorrow I think there’s every chance we shall have finished with this unfortunate business once for all.”

AFTER another day of meetings, which had again been adjourned, without giving Luke and me what we were asking for, I went in the evening to Martin’s rooms. Earlier in the day I had telephoned him, telling him what Crawford had said. The lights in the high eighteenth-century windows, late additions to the court, did not dominate it as they would when it was full dark: they just stood welcoming. I expected Martin to be waiting for me with the result.

What I did not expect was to enter the room and find not Martin, but Howard and his wife waiting there. Howard, who was reading an evening paper, looked up and said hallo. Laura said good-evening, addressing me in full, politely, formally, brightly.

“Martin let us know that the verdict was coming through tonight,” she explained.

“Nothing yet?”

“Not yet.” She remarked that Martin had gone out to see if he could “pick up anything”. Both she and Howard seemed quite undisturbed.

Their nerves were steadier than mine, I thought. If I had been in their place, I couldn’t have endured to plant myself in the college waiting, however certain I had been of what I was going to hear. In fact, the more certain I had been, the more I should have been impelled, by a streak of superstitious touching-wood, which they would both have despised, to make it a bit hard for the good news to catch up with me. In their place, I should have gone for a walk, away from telephones or messengers, and then returned home, hoping the news was there, still wishing that the envelope could stay unopened.

Not so these two. They were so brave that they seemed impervious. Howard had found in the paper something about an English soldier being killed on what he called “one of your colonial adventures”. He would have liked to make me argue about politics. The curious thing was that, as he talked, protruding the Marxist labels, making them sound aggressive, he was also cross because the platoon had walked into an ambush. A cousin of his was serving with that brigade, and Howard suddenly slipped into a concern that I might have heard at Pratt’s, irritated, paternal, patrician. One felt that, change his temperament by an inch, he would have made a good regimental officer.

There was a sound of footsteps on the staircase outside. I knew them for Martin’s, though they might have sounded like a heavier man’s. I stopped talking. Howard was looking towards the door.

Martin came in. He had a piece of paper in his hand. His eyes were so bright that, just for an instant, I thought that all was well. We were sitting round the chimney-piece, and he did not speak until he had reached the rug in front of us.

“I am sorry to be the one to tell you this,” he said to them in a hard voice. “It’s bad.”

Without another word he gave the note to Howard, who read it with an expression open and washed clean. He did not speak, passed the note to his wife, and once more picked up the evening paper. In a moment Laura, her colour dark, a single furrow running across her forehead, gave me the note. It carried the address of the college Lodge, and read:

The Court of Seniors, at the request of the College, have reconsidered the case of Dr D J Howard, formerly a Fellow. They have concluded that there is no sufficient reason for them to amend their previous decision.

R T A Crawford.

Master of the College.

In a tone so quiet that it became a whisper, as though we were in a sick-room or a church, Martin told me that the notice had not yet gone round: it was just being duplicated in the college office, and he had collected a copy there. As he sat down, without saying any more, he looked at me, as if for once he did not know the etiquette, as if he was lost about what to say to these two or do for them. I hadn’t any help to give. He and I sat there in silence, watching Laura gaze with protective love at Howard. He was holding the newspaper low, so as to catch the light from the reading-lamp. The only movement he made, the only movement in the whole room, was that of his eyes as they went down the page.

He did not turn over. I could not tell whether he had stopped reading, or whether he was reading at all.

All of a sudden he let the paper drop. As it fell, the front page drifted loose and we could see the headlines, bold and meaningless, upon the rug.

“I hope they’re satisfied now,” he shouted. He began to swear, and the curses came out high and grating. “Oh, yes,” he cried, “I hope they’re satisfied!” He went on shouting and cursing, as though Martin and I were not there. At last he sat up straight, looked at Martin, and said with a curious sneering politeness: “If it comes to that, I hope you’re satisfied too.”