Charles Snow - The Affair

Someone stirred. Crawford’s face and body were quite still.

“I find it distressing not to have more factual certainty. I do not take the view, held apparently by some, that in matters of this kind one can usefully see into other people’s minds. Speaking as a man of science, I do not apprehend the suggestions made why such and such a person may have done such and such. For myself, I have to fall back on first principles. My first principle is to discount what may have been happening in people’s minds and to give weight to the man who knows most about the concrete phenomenon.”

He went on: “That brings me straight away to our colleague, Getliffe. Here I might add something, from my own position, to what has been said by the senior Fellow present. As he rightly told us, Getliffe is a distinguished man of science. He has served twice on the Council of the Royal Society, overlapping on one of those occasions with myself. He has not yet been awarded the Copley Medal” — said Crawford with satisfaction, who had — “but in 1950 he won the only slightly less distinguished Royal Medal. I must say, I cannot find it within me to disregard a man of such credentials. We have known for some time, of course, that he was uneasy about the Court’s original decision. I was never comfortable, as my colleagues will remember, that he was not altogether with us. But I was under the impression, which I believe was not completely false, that he was prepared to concede that there was a genuine margin for disagreement. Speaking both as Master and as man of science, I feel that on Sunday, before the Court, he removed that impression. I have hoped all along that this wretched business could be settled without too much disturbance. But though nothing we can do now will please everybody, I think there is only one thing I for myself can say or do. I do not know that Getliffe convinced me that Howard was, beyond the possibility of doubt, innocent. He did convince me, however, that no body of sensible men, certainly no body of men of science, could say that he was guilty. Therefore I find myself obliged to believe that he has received less than fairness, and that he should be reinstated by this Court. I have to say so now.”

I lit a cigarette, looking across at Brown. Was it all right? I was thinking, Crawford, who for so long had been permanently middle-aged, had suddenly seemed old. I had seen the same change and the same symptoms in predecessors of his: men quite different from him except that they had just come to the critical point. He was thinking now only of the mainstay of his life: and for him, the mainstay had been his science, his position among scientists. Not that he was a man, one would have thought, who needed to buoy up his self-esteem: yet that had been the purpose, the meaning, the lustre of his life, and in his seventies, when he thought about it, as he did increasingly, it gave him happiness.

He had enjoyed being Master, just as he enjoyed any honour that came his way: but to him it had really been an honour, not a job: his only ambition in the Lodge had been a quiet reign and no fuss. He had no involvement in other people, and very little feeling for them. Like many men whose human interests burn low, he was often, for that very reason, comfortable to be with, just because he made no demands. It was from the same source that he derived his dignity, his kind of impersonal tact. And yet, in the end, it had let him down. Throughout the affair, he hadn’t been able to draw on enough reserves of feeling to give the college the leadership it needed. This was painful to him, it had aged him: not so much because he felt inadequate as because, step by step, he had found himself dragged into scenes of personal emotion. For, again like many men themselves not involved, he had a dread, superstitious or pathological, of feeling in others. The undertow of violence, of suspicion, of passion, had dragged at everyone in the Court: but he was the only one who had felt it like an old man’s illness.

Without any hurry, as though he were discussing giving a grant of ten pounds to a choral exhibitioner, Brown said: “Master, I’m afraid this puts me in a rather awkward position.”

He meant that the decision now rested with him. He said it without anxiety, for though he was far-sighted he was not anxious. He said it without drama, for no one was less histrionic. Yet his expression was full of care and feeling.

“I admit,” said Brown, still in a round, conciliatory tone, which contradicted his expression, “that I am a little sorry that everyone has committed himself rather further than I should be prepared to do this afternoon. I am right in thinking, Master, that we shall have an opportunity to exchange views tomorrow? That is, when the Seniors meet in private?”

“If you wish it, Senior Tutor.”

“Thank you, Master. I don’t feel able to come down finally one way or the other, until I’ve slept on it.”

Crawford was gathering his gown round him, ready to rise, when Brown went on: “If you will allow me one last thought today. I have a feeling that it is only fair to Eliot, who has given us so much of his time and trouble.” He faced me with a slight smile. “I have listened most carefully, as we all have, to his representations. We are all seized, as I am sure he knows, of the complexities of this case and its repercussions. Some of those repercussions, I am certain that he will recognise, are no fault of this Court. We have been given very pointed warnings by our other friend, Dawson-Hill. Of course Eliot will realise the responsibility those warnings put upon us. In most circumstances, as everyone in this room knows, I think, I should be the first person to look for a compromise. But I’m afraid I should have to stick in my heels against a compromise, if and when it might imply casting even the insinuation of approval upon blame thrown against valued colleagues and innocent men.”

AT six o’clock, in the Howards’ flat, as I listened to them talking to an Indian, I was preoccupied by the news which I had had no chance to break. If it had been good news, I would have somehow slipped in a word. Did they know that? They were both, Howard especially, more anxious than when they waited in Martin’s room in April. Howard had taken two stiff drinks in a quarter of an hour.

The Indian, whose name was Pande, had been in the room when I arrived. He had a small, delicate, handsome head; by the side of the Howards he looked quiveringly fine-nerved. He was drinking orange-juice while the rest of us drank whisky. Laura was trying to persuade him to sign some protest. He was too polite to say that he did not want to, too polite even to change the conversation. As Laura got up to fill a glass, I noticed that she was pregnant. With her strong, comely figure, she carried the child lightly; she might be already six months gone. She saw my glance, and gave, to herself, not to me, a smile that was a mixture of triumph and pudeur .

“You must see—” she said to the Indian, standing over him.

Very politely, Dr Pande did not quite see. I was thinking, he would have called himself progressive, as they did: but he was nothing like at home with them. They were too positive. With his nerves, at least, he would have been more at home with a quiet reactionary, like G S Clark. Once more the useless rat race of anxiety went on in my mind: what words exactly had Brown used? Could they mean anything but their obvious meaning, that he had decided against us and that we had lost? Was he warning me that it was no use trying to move him that night?

The Howards, though they had not swerved from trying to persuade the Indian, kept slipping glances in my direction, making attempts to read my face. But they were so tough and disciplined that they stopped themselves trying to hurry Dr Pande out.