Charles Snow - The Affair

As the butler announced dinner, Brown had walked into the combination room: President for the night, he took Luke and me into hall behind him. After grace, his eyes peered down the high table. Francis Getliffe and Martin were several places down from the President — and beyond them, having arrived late, was Skeffington, his head inches above any man’s there. Brown’s face was composed, high-coloured and full; his eyes were sharp behind their spectacles, not missing a trick. For all his heavy composure, he responded to atmosphere as one of the most sensitive of men. He had only had to get inside the combination room to sniff the trouble in the air.

From the head of the table, he watched the faces — and then, in his unfussed way, he talked to Luke and me as though it were a perfectly ordinary evening, as though, after his ten thousand dinners at the high table, this was just his ten thousand and first. The immemorial topics: new buildings: the flowers in the garden: which head of a house was retiring next. Walter Luke wasn’t specially designed to meet that unflurried patter. Once Brown broke it, and asked us a question, wrapped up but shrewd, about the “military side” of Luke’s work. Brown did not approve of pacifism; if horrific bombs could be made, of course his country ought to make them. Then he returned to harmless talk, deliberately small beer, produced — since Brown was not afraid to seem boring — to damp down controversy, and to prevent anyone raising “awkward subjects”.

It went on like that at our end of the table. It might have been a college evening at its most placid. To Luke, who went away immediately after dinner, it must have seemed that the excitement had died. When Brown took his seat in the combination room, he asked the junior Fellow to see whether the company wanted wine, and himself called out to Francis and Martin — “Won’t you stay for a few minutes?” They were standing up: they glanced at each other, and Francis said that they had some business to attend to. Still speaking as though all were smooth, Brown said, “Well, Julian, what about you?” Skeffington also had been standing up: but when he heard Brown’s question, he dropped into a chair not far from Brown at the combination room table.

“That’s right,” said Brown.

“No, Mr President,” Skeffington threw his head back, “it’s not right at all.”

“Can’t you stay?”

“All I want to do is to tell you this is a bad show, and I for one am not prepared to sit down under it.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” Brown said, playing for time. “I suppose you must be talking about this decision, which the Seniors couldn’t see any alternative to making—”

“There was a very simple alternative, Mr President.”

“What was that?”

“To admit that there’d been a crashing mistake. Then to make it up to the poor chap.”

“I’m sorry,” said Brown. “We’re all human and liable to error, but on this particular issue, speaking for myself, I’ve seldom been more certain that I was right.”

“Then it’s time we had someone unprejudiced on this wretched Court—”

“Are you seriously suggesting that we should give up our places on the Court of Seniors simply because we don’t find ourselves able to accept your judgment?”

“No. Simply because you don’t want to admit the facts when you see them.”

Brown said, dignified and still equable in tone: “I think we’d better leave this for tonight. I don’t think you will persuade us to abdicate our responsibility, you know. I fancy we’d better leave it for tonight and talk it over later, if you feel disposed.”

“No. I feel disposed for something which will bring results.” At that, Martin, who had been standing behind us, said to Skeffington that it was time to go.

“I intend to have results and have them quickly,” cried Skeffington. “I am not going to have this innocent chap left with a black mark against him while you put us off with one sidestep after another. If you can’t give us a decent constitutional method of getting a bit of simple justice, then we shall have to try something else.”

“I’m not clear what else you can try,” Brown replied.

“I am ready to make the whole case public,” said Skeffington. “I don’t like it, it won’t do much good to any of us or to this college. But it will do some good to the one chap who most needs it. The minute we’ve let a breath of fresh air into this wretched business, you haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

“I hope I don’t understand you, as I am afraid I do,” said Brown. “Are you intending to say that you’re prepared to get the college into the papers ?”

“Certainly I am.”

“I’m obliged to tell you,” said Brown, “that I’m astonished to hear the bare suggestion. All I can hope is that when you’ve slept on it you will realise how unforgivable all of us here would judge any such action to be.”

Skeffington replied, “Don’t you realise some of us here won’t sleep at all? It’s better than letting this chap be done down forever.”

“I repeat,” said Brown, “I hope you’ll sleep on it.”

“Unless someone else can think up a nicer way, I’m ready to blow the whole thing wide open.”

“I should be surprised if you didn’t think better of it.”

“I shan’t.”

Skeffington’s wild irritability seemed to have left him. He glanced over his shoulder at Francis and Martin, still waiting for him. He stood up, proud, vain, sure of himself. With the return of a naval officer’s politeness — towering over the table, he appeared so theatrically handsome that he looked more like an actor playing a naval officer — he said, “Good night, Mr President”, and the three of them went out.

Brown returned the good night, but for a few moments he sat thinking, the decanter static before him in its silver runner. Two or three of the scientists had followed the others, and there were only half a dozen of us scattered around the long table. Of these Nightingale stayed until the decanter had gone round, and then, apologising to Brown, said that he had an hour’s work to do before he went home. He spoke good-temperedly, not making any reference to the scene we had all witnessed. Neither did Clark, who departed soon after; he did mention, however, that he would be ringing Brown up that night or next morning, and it sounded like business. I hadn’t much doubt that there would be other telephone calls about Skeffington’s threat before the end of the night.

Soon Tom Orbell and I were left alone with Brown. He summoned Tom from the far end of the table, telling him to sit at his left hand. “It’s rather a small party for an April evening,” said Arthur Brown, and proceeded impassively to tell us how, as a junior Fellow, he had found himself the only man dining at high table, one night in full term. But Brown’s front was not impregnable. At the end of the story he became silent; just for an instant, he was too much preoccupied to be master of ceremonies; he turned to me and said, “I know you are inclined to believe that the Seniors’ judgment isn’t the right one, Lewis.”

“I’m afraid I do,” I said.

“But you wouldn’t deny that our friend Skeffington made an exhibition of himself, would you?”

For once Brown, the most solid of men, was asking for support. He was speaking to me not as an opponent, but as an old friend.

I could not help replying: “I should have preferred him to do it in a different way, of course I should.”

“I thought you would,” said Brown, with a smile relieved, comradely, but still brooding. “I thought we should agree on that.”

Just then Tom put in, deliberately innocent, his eyes wide open, as though he were exaggerating his youth: “I wonder if you’d let me say something, Arthur?”