Charles Snow: The Affair

There were no books in the guest room. I had read the morning papers twice over. I ate the relics of the bread and cheese which Jago and I had brought in the night before. Between one and half past I telephoned the porter’s lodge. The head porter told me that the combination room lights, which had been on most of the morning, were now turned off. The Seniors must have gone to lunch.

As soon as I heard that, I went quickly through the courts to the college library, took out a couple of books, returned to my rooms. I was anxious enough to telephone the porter’s lodge again: had there been a message during the minutes I had been away? When they said no, I settled down to read, trying to stop myself speculating: but I was ready to hear the college clock each time it struck.

It had just struck half past three, when there was a knock at my door. I looked for the college butler. It was Dawson-Hill.

“I must say, Lewis,” he said, “the old boys are taking their time.”

He was not cross, not in the least worried, except that he had to catch the last train back to London.

“I suggest,” he said, “that we both need a breath of fresh air.”

Leaving the window open on the garden side, we should, he said, be within earshot of the telephone. So we walked on the grass between the great chestnut and the palladian building. The wind was rough, the bushes seethed, but Dawson-Hill’s glossy hair stayed untroubled. He set himself to entertain me with stories which he himself found perennially fascinating: of how the commanding officer of his regiment had mistaken X for Y, of how Lord Boscastle had remarked, of a family who were the height of fashion, “Whatever made them think they were aristocrats?” He was setting himself to entertain me. His laugh, which sounded affected and wasn’t, cachinnated cheerfully into the wind-swept March-like garden. By this time I was worrying like a machine that won’t run down. I could have brained him.

At half past four his stories were still going on, but he had decided that we both needed a cup of tea. Back in my rooms, he rang up the kitchens: no one there yet, in the depth of vacation. He took me out to a café close by, leaving a message with the porter. No one had asked for us when we returned. It was after five when, sitting in my room, Dawson-Hill cachinnating, I heard another knock on the door. This time it was the butler.

“The Master’s compliments, gentlemen, and he would be grateful if you would join him in the combination room.”

As he walked in front of us through the court, it occurred to me that this was how the news of my Fellowship had come. I had been waiting in Francis Getliffe’s rooms (without suspense, because it had been settled beforehand), the butler had knocked on the door, given me the Master’s compliments, and led me in.

Again, this dark summer afternoon, the butler led us in. On the panels, the wall-sconces were shining rosily. The Seniors sat, Winslow with his head sunk over the table, Brown bolt upright, Nightingale with his arms crossed over his chest. Crawford gazed at us, face moonlike, back to his normal composure. When he spoke his voice was tired, but nothing like as jaded or spiky as on the day before.

“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” he said. “We apologise for keeping you all this time. We have had a little difficulty in expressing our intention.”

In front of him and Brown were sheets of foolscap, written on, passages crossed out, pages of holograph with lines across them, attempts at drafting, discarded resolutions.

The butler was leaving the room, when Brown plucked at Crawford’s gown and whispered in his ear.

“Before you go, Newby!” called Crawford.

“Thank you very much for reminding me, Senior Tutor. We are under pledge, as I think the Court will remember, to communicate our decision to Professor Gay, who was appointed by the College Moderator in this case. I believe it was agreed that our legal colleagues here would report our decision to the Moderator, as soon as it was signed and sealed. Is that correct?”

“Certainly, Master,” said Dawson-Hill.

“In that case,” Crawford said to the butler, “I should be obliged if you would give a message to Professor Gay’s house asking him to expect these two gentlemen this evening.”

No one was smiling. No one, except me, seemed to resent this final interruption.

The door closed.

“So that’s all in train,” said Crawford, and Brown steadily nodded.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Crawford, “perhaps now we can dispatch our business. I should like to make a preliminary observation. Speaking not as Master but as a member of the college, and as one who has spent half a century in academic life, I have often felt that our internal disagreements sometimes generate more heat than light. I seem to recall making a similar comment on other occasions. But, with deference to my colleagues, I doubt if that has ever been more true than in this present one, which, I am thankful to say, we are now concluding. Speaking as an academic man, I am sometimes inclined to believe in the existence of a special furor academicum . However, speaking now as Master about this special and unfortunate occasion, I have to say that it is one of our responsibilities to diminish the heat which it has generated. In the course of our very protracted and careful discussions in this Court, especially today, I need hardly remark that no one has ever entertained a thought that any Fellow of the college — with the solitary exception of the man whom the Court originally deprived — could possibly have acted except with good intentions and according to the code of men devoted to science or other branches of learning.”

This wasn’t hypocrisy. It was the kind of formal language that Crawford had been brought up in. It was not very different from the formal language of officials. It meant something like the opposite of what it said. It meant that such thoughts were in everyone’s mind: and that for reasons of prudence, face-saving and perhaps a sort of corporate kindness, the thoughts had to be pushed away. Crawford went on. Maddened for him to come to the point, I heard phrases of Brown’s put in for Nightingale’s benefit. I heard the damping-down of crises, the explaining away of “misunderstandings”, the respectful domestication of Francis Getliffe.

At last Crawford said: “I hope that conceivably these few superficial remarks may give our legal colleagues some idea of the difficulties we have found ourselves in, and of the way in which our minds have been working. I think it remains for me now, as Master of the College and President of the Court of Seniors, to let them know our finding. This finding has already been composed in the form of an Order. When we have heard any observations our legal colleagues may have to make, the Order will be inscribed in the Seniors’ Order Book.”

He scrabbled among the papers in front of him. He picked up one sheet.

“No, Master, fortunately not,” said old Winslow. “This is one of the resolutions, one of the perceptible number of resolutions, if I may say so, that you and I didn’t find altogether congenial.”

“This is it, Master,” said Arthur Brown, as unmoved as a good secretary.

“Thank you, Senior Tutor.” Crawford took off his glasses, replaced them with another pair, settled back in his chair, quite relaxed, and read.

“June 30th, 1954. At a Meeting of the Court of Seniors, held this day, present the Master, Mr Winslow, Mr Brown, Dr Nightingale, it was resolved with one dissentient; that, after the hearings on June 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, held in the presence of legal advisers, the testimony is not sufficient to support the Order for the Deprivation of D J Howard, dated October 19th, 1952, and that the Order for such Deprivation is hereby quashed. It was further resolved that Dr Howard’s Fellowship should be presumed to have continued without interruption during the period of deprivation and that he should be paid dividends and commons allowance in full: and that his Fellowship shall continue until it lapses by the effluxion of time.