Charles Snow - The Affair

“The only comfort is,” said Crawford, “that, whatever rules one has, sensible men usually reach a sensible conclusion.”

Dawson-Hill caught my eye. He was deeply conservative, snobbish, perfectly content to accept the world he lived in: but I thought his expression was just a shade more like a conjurer’s assistant’s, just a shade more surprised.

“And now,” Crawford shrugged off the business and Arthur Brown’s coaching, and became his impersonal, courteous self, “I should like to say, speaking as Master, that the entire college is indebted to you two for giving us your time and energy. We know that we’re asking a good deal of you without any return at all. I should like to thank you very much.”

“My dear Master,” said Dawson-Hill.

“I wish,” said Crawford, still with imperturbable dignity, “that the next stage in the proceedings were not an extra tax on your good nature. But, as I expect you know, we have to reckon with a certain amount of personalia in these institutions. In any case, I think you have had due notice?”

Yes, we had had due notice. I felt irritable — for I was anxious enough about next day to have lost my taste for farce — that it was something we could have been spared. The college had had to buy old Gay off. The way they had found, the only way to placate him and prevent him from insisting upon his place on the Court, was to resurrect the eighteenth-century office of Moderator. This was an office I had never heard of, but the antiquaries had got busy. Apparently, in days when the Fellows had been chronically litigious, one of the Seniors had been appointed to keep the ring. So solemnly in full college meeting, M H L Gay, Senior Fellow, had been elected “Moderator in the present proceedings before the Court of Seniors” — and that evening after tea, Crawford, Winslow and Nightingale in one taxi, Brown, Dawson-Hill and I in another, were travelling up the Madingley Road to Gay’s to be instructed in our duties.

I said that this must be one of the more remarkable jaunts on record. Brown gave a pursed smile. He was not amused. Not that he was anxious: in times of trouble he slowed himself down, so that he became under the surface tougher and more difficult to shift. No, he was not anxious. But he was also not viewing the proceedings with irony. For Brown, when one was going on a formal occasion, even on a formal occasion he had himself invented, the ceremonies had to be properly performed.

We filed, Crawford leading us, into the old man’s study. Gay was sitting in his armchair, beard trimmed, shawl over his shoulders. He greeted us in a ringing voice.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen! Pray forgive me if I don’t rise for the present. I need to husband my energies a little nowadays, indeed I do.” Then he said disconcertingly to Crawford: “Tell me, my dear chap, what is your name?”

Just for a moment Crawford was at a loss. His mouth opened, the impassive moon of his face was clouded. He replied: “I am Thomas Crawford, Master of the College.”

“I absolutely remember. I congratulate you, my dear chap,” said Gay, with panache. “And what is more, I absolutely remember why you have attended on me here this very evening.”

He had not asked us to sit down. The room was dark. Out of the window, one saw, under the platinum sky, more roses. That day the town seemed to be full of them.

“I trust you had a comfortable journey out here, gentlemen?”

“Where from?” Crawford replied; he was still off his stroke.

“Why, from the college to be sure.” Gay gave a loud, triumphant laugh. Someone said that it was a cold afternoon and an awful summer.

“Nonsense, my dear chap. Bad summer? You young men don’t know what a bad summer is. Indeed you don’t. Now, ’88, that was a bad summer if ever there was one. Why, I was in Iceland that summer. I was just getting into the swim of what some critics have been kind enough to call my great work on the Sagas. Great work — ah, indeed. Mind you, I’ve always disclaimed the word ‘great’. I’ve always said, call the work distinguished if you like, but it’s not for me to approve of the higher appellation. Certainly not. I was telling you, gentlemen, that I was in Iceland, that bitter summer of 1888. And do you know what I found when I got there? None of you will guess, I’ll be bound. Why, they were having the best summer for a generation! It was fifteen degrees warmer than in our unfortunate Cambridge. Iceland — that country was very poor in those days. They were living hard lives, those poor people, like my Sagamen. Do you know, that year they managed to grow some fresh vegetables? And for those poor people that was a luxury and a half. I remember sitting down to a meal with a dish of cabbage, I can taste it now, and I told myself, ‘Gay, my boy, this country is welcoming you. This country is giving you all it can.’ I’m not ashamed to say it seemed like an omen for my future work. And we should all agree that that was an omen which pointed true.”

We were still standing up. Crawford coughed and said: “Perhaps I ought to introduce my colleagues to you—?”

“Quite unnecessary, my dear chap. Just because one has a slip of memory with your face, it doesn’t mean that one forgets others. Indeed it doesn’t. Welcome to you all.”

He waved magnanimously to Brown, Winslow and Nightingale, who were standing together on Crawford’s left. None of us was certain whether he really knew who they were. “In any case,” Crawford started again, “I expect you don’t remember our legal advisers here. May I present—?”

“Quite unnecessary once more. This is Eliot, who was a Fellow of the College from 1934 until 1945, although he went out of residence during the war and then and subsequently did service to the State which has been publicly recognised. He has also written distinguished books. Distinguished, yes; I never protested about people calling my own work that. It was when they insisted on saying ‘great’ that I felt obliged to draw in my horns. And this must be Dawson-Hill, whom I don’t recall having had the pleasure of meeting, but who was a scholar of the college from 1925 to 1928, took silk in 1939, became a major in the Welsh Guards in 1943, and is a member of the Athenaeum, the Carlton, White’s and Pratt’s.”

The old man beamed, looking proud of himself.

“You see, I’ve done my homework, my dear—?” He looked at Crawford with a smile, unabashed. “I do apologise, but your name obstinately escapes me.”

“Crawford.”

“Ah, yes. Our present Master. Master, I’d better call you. I’ve done my homework, you see — Master. Who’s Who , that’s a fine book. That’s a book and a half. My only criticism is that perhaps it could be more selective. Then some of us would feel at liberty to include slightly fuller particulars of ourselves.”

He turned in the direction of Dawson-Hill. “I apologise for not welcoming you before.”

Dawson-Hill who, unlike Crawford, was quite at ease, went up and shook hands.

“I attended a lecture of yours once, Professor Gay,” he said.

“I congratulate you,” said Gay.

“It was a bit above my head,” said Dawson-Hill, with a mixture of deference and cheek.

Gay was disposed to track down which specific lecture it had been, but Winslow, who had managed to support himself by leaning on a chair, enquired: “I confess I’m not quite clear about the purpose of this conference—”

“You’re not quite clear, my dear chap? But I am. Indeed I am. But thank you for reminding me of my office. Yes, indeed. I must think about my responsibilities and the task in front of you all. Ah, we must look to the immediate future. That’s the place to look.”

“Do you wish us to sit round the table?” Brown asked.