Charles Snow - The Affair

We were walking as though I might never have left the college, as though we were a pair, not of friends exactly, but of friendly acquaintances, who had been colleagues for twenty years, and were, without noticing it, getting old together.

Outside the main gate, the car was drawn up by the kerb, the door open, Mrs Nightingale looking out.

“Hullo,” she said, “what have you boys been up to?”

“Oh, just talking a bit of shop,” said Nightingale.

She got out on to the pavement, so that Nightingale could climb in to drive. As he did so, she patted him affectionately and then stood chatting to me. She was as unselfconscious as anyone I had known. She was so easy that, though at sight she was not specially attractive, she took on an attraction of her own. And yet, the instant I heard her ask what we had been doing, and saw her great eyes glance at him, I was positive about two things. First, that she had known exactly what we had been talking about, and second, that, in the midst of the suspicion about him, she did not suspect but know. I was positive about something more. She was easy, she was good-natured, she would far rather the people round her were happy than unhappy. If he had not done what he was suspected of, she would be glad. But if he had done it, then she would not only know, she would talk about it with him, she would enjoy the complicity, and she would — for though she had good feelings, she had no kind of conscience — amiably approve.

THE bell tolled, sunlight spotted the carpet, as I came into the combination room on the Monday morning. The Seniors were all there, standing by the fireplace. Even as we exchanged good mornings, one could feel the strain in the air. It was not the specific kind of strain that one meets going into a group of acquaintances, when they are hiding bad news from one. I had no guide as to what had been said among themselves, either the night before or that morning; but I knew almost at once that they were split.

Dawson-Hill came in, not from the college door as I had done, but from the inner one which led to the Master’s Lodge. I was wondering, how early did this conference begin? Dawson-Hill’s hair was burnished, he smelled of shaving lotion: “Good morning, my dear Lewis,” he said, with his bright, indifferent smile.

We took our places at the table. Slowly, with neat fingers, Crawford packed and lit a pipe. He sat back in his chair, his face as unlined as ever, his body as still: and yet, as soon as he spoke, I was sure that for once his complacency was precarious.

“I’m inclined to think,” he said, “that certain statements made by one of our colleagues involve us in a certain amount of difficulty. I’m going to ask you to address your minds to the wisest way of removing the difficulty, remembering, of course, the responsibility before the Court.”

He sucked at his pipe.

“Eliot, these statements concern your side of the case. Are you able to give us a lead?”

Although I was looking at Crawford, I could feel Nightingale’s gaze upon me. This had been pre-arranged, I thought. They were leaving the move with me. As for an instant I hesitated, a voice came from Crawford’s right: “With your permission, Master.”

Crawford turned, face and shoulders, to look at old Winslow.

“Do you wish to speak now?” Crawford asked him.

“If you please. If you please.”

Crawford held up his hand in my direction, as though I needed shutting up. Winslow bent his head down over the table, like a great battered bird investigating the ground for food; then, twitching his gown away from his collar, he stared up at us from that bent posture. His eyes were bold, unconcerned, almost mischievous.

“As you all know, Master,” he said, “I speak as a complete ignoramus. When I hear the interesting subjects discussed so intelligently by everyone else on this Court, I marvel slightly at how remarkably little I know of these matters. However, there are limits even to my incapacity. Yesterday afternoon, of course I may delude myself, I thought I captured the general drift of what Francis Getliffe was trying to tell us. Unless I am considerably mistaken, he was trying to tell us something which is perhaps a shade out of the ordinary run. He appeared to be giving us, as his considered opinion, that the unfortunate Howard might conceivably have been what I believe is nowadays known as ‘framed’. And that if this possibility should happen to be true, then it appears that one of the Fellows, one of our singular and reputedly learned society, must have been guilty of suppressio veri . To put it with the maximum of charity, which is probably, as is usually the case, totally uncalled-for.

“I have been considering these rather unusual possibilities, but I see no reason to invent complexities where no complexities can reasonably exist. It seems to me impossible, much as one perhaps might wish it, to pretend that Getliffe did not mean what he said. It seems to me a fortiori impossible for this Court not to act accordingly. No, I have to correct myself. No doubt nothing is impossible for this Court, or for any other committee of our college. Shall I simply say that it is impossible for me? Of course, I know nothing of Getliffe’s subject. But I have always understood that he is a man of great distinction. I have never heard anyone suggest that his character is not beyond reproach. For what little my opinion is worth, I have always thought very highly of him. Indeed, Master, may I bring it to a point?”

“Naturally.”

“Thank you, thank you. I need only remind you of what I think is common knowledge. Shortly, my dear Master, your remarkable reign is coming to a close and you will subside into obscurity with the rest of us. In the ensuing election, I have never so much as contemplated another candidate than Getliffe. If you will forgive the turn of phrase, I soon both expect and hope to see him in your place.”

Winslow gave a grim, nutcracker smile at Crawford, reminding him of supersession and mortality. He gave another past Crawford at Brown, reminding him of Winslow’s opinion of his chances.

“I confess,” Winslow went on, “I should find a certain inconsistency in supporting Getliffe as our next Master and not paying attention to his statement of yesterday afternoon. I do not propose to exhibit that inconsistency. I should therefore like to give notice, Master, that on this Court I intend to vote for the reinstatement of Howard, or if you prefer it, the quashing of his deprivation, whatever peculiar form of procedure we find it appropriate to use. I suggest that this is done forthwith. Of course,” said Winslow, “it will make the Court of Seniors look slightly ridiculous. But then, the Court of Seniors is slightly ridiculous.”

Quiet. Whatever else had been talked about and decided, this hadn’t, I was certain. No one there had expected Winslow’s démarche . Further, I was certain, after watching the others respond to Winslow, that among themselves much had been left unspoken. Was that because Nightingale had not left them? Hadn’t Crawford and Brown talked by themselves?

“Is that all?” enquired Crawford, flatly but politely.

“Thank you, Master. That is all.”

It had sounded like an outburst, like a free, capricious act. Yet in fact, Winslow was running along an old groove: it wasn’t often or for long that men of eighty could get out of the grooves their lives had worn, and despite his spirit, gusto and relish, Winslow had not done so that morning. He had always had a standard of suitable behaviour. His tongue made that standard sound odder than it was. Actually, it was as orthodox as Brown’s, and in depth not so independent: for Winslow believed what responsible people told him, as now with Francis Getliffe, while Brown, however comfortably he spoke, in the long run believed no one but himself.