The Light and the Dark (11 page)

At four o’clock I entered the college by the great gate. The bell was tolling for the meeting, the curtains of the combination room were already drawn. Through the curtains, the lights of the room glowed orange and drew my eyes from the dark court; like any lighted room on a dusky evening, it tempted me with domestic comfort, even though I was wishing that the meeting were all over or that I need not go.

As soon as I got inside, I knew so much of it by heart – the burnished table reflecting, not wineglasses and decanters, but inkpots and neat piles of paper in front of each of our chairs – old Gay, the senior fellow, aged seventy-nine, tucking with shameless greed and gusto into an enormous tea, and congratulating everyone on its excellence – the great silver teapots, the muffin covers, the solid fruit cakes, the pastries – the little groups of two or three colloguing in corners, with sometimes a word, louder than the rest of their conversation, causing others to frown and wonder.

It did not vary meeting by meeting. Nor indeed did the business itself, when the half hour struck, and the Master, brisk, polite, quick-witted, called us to our places, asked for the minutes, said his opening word about the day’s proceedings. For by tradition the day’s proceedings had to begin first with any questions of college livings and second with financial business. That afternoon there was only a report that someone was considering a call to the one vacant living (“he’ll take it,” said Despard-Smith bleakly): but when the Master, so used to these affairs that his courtesy was second nature, his impatience long since dulled, asked: “Bursar, have you any business for us?” Winslow replied: “If you please, Master. If you please.” We listened to a long account of the difficulty of collecting rents from some of the college farms. We then heard the problem of the lease of one of the Cambridge shops, and discussed how to buy a house owned by another college, which was desirable in order to rectify an unstrategic frontier. It was routine, it was quite unselfconscious, it was what we were used to: it only happened that I could have dispensed with it that afternoon, that was all.

As usual, the financial business tailed away about half-past five. The Master, completely fresh, looked round the table. It was a gift of his to seem formal, and yet natural and relaxed.

“That seems to bring us to our main business, gentlemen,” he said. “As will be familiar to you, we have appointed today for the election of a fellow. I suggest we follow the custom that is becoming habitual – though it wasn’t so when I was a junior fellow” – he smiled at some of the older men, as though there was a story to be told later – “and have a straw vote first, to see if we can reach a majority for any candidate. After that, we will proceed to a formal vote, in which we have been known to put on a somewhat greater appearance of agreement.”

There were a few suppressed smiles.

“Well,” said the Master, “the college is well aware of my own position. I thought it right and proper – in fact I felt obliged – to bring up the name of Mr R C E Calvert for consideration. I have told the college, no doubt at excessive length, that in my own view Mr Calvert is our strongest candidate for years past. The college will be familiar with the written reports on his work, and I understand that some fellows had the opportunity of meeting Sir Oulstone Lyall and Colonel Foulkes in person, who probably expressed to them, as they have expressed to me, their opinions upon Mr Calvert.” For a second a slight smile crossed the Master’s face. “The whole case has been explored, if I may say so, with praiseworthy thoroughness. I seem to recall certain discussions in this room and elsewhere. I do not know whether the college now feels that it has heard enough to vote straightaway, or whether there are some fellows who would prefer to examine the question further.”

“If you please, Master,” began Winslow.

“I am afraid that I should consider it rushing things,” said Despard-Smith, at the same moment.

“You wish for a discussion, Bursar?” said the Master, his colour a shade higher, but still courteous.

“Seniores priores,” Winslow said, inclining his head to Despard-Smith.

“Mr Despard-Smith?” said the Master.

“Master,” Despard-Smith gazed down the table with impressive gloom, “I am afraid that I must impress upon the college the d-disastrous consequences of a risky election. The consequences may be worse than disastrous, they may be positively catastrophic. I must tell the college that my doubts about Mr Calvert are very far from being removed. With great respect, Master, I am compelled to say that nothing I have yet heard has even begun to remove my doubts. I need not tell the college that nothing would please me more than being able conscientiously to support Mr Calvert. But, as I am at present s-situated, I should be forsaking my duty if I did not raise my doubts at this critical juncture.”

“We should all be grateful,” said the Master formally.

“It is a thankless task,” said Despard-Smith, with sombre relish, “but I feel it is in the man’s own best interests. First of all, I am compelled to ask whether any of Mr Calvert’s sponsors can reassure me on this point: if he were to be elected, would he take his share of the” – Despard-Smith stuttered, and then produced one of his descents into solemn anti-climax – “the bread-and-butter work of the college? I cannot see Mr Calvert doing his honest share of the bread-and-butter work, and a college of this size cannot carry passengers.”

“Perhaps I might answer that, Master?” said Arthur Brown, bland, vigilant, his tone conciliatory, stubbornly prepared to argue all through the night.

The Master was glad to hear him.

“Anyone who knows Mr Calvert,” said Brown roundly, “could feel no shadow of doubt about his willingness to undertake any duties the college put upon him. Put it another way: he would never let us down, whatever we asked him to do. But I must reply to Mr Despard-Smith that I myself, and I feel sure I am speaking for several fellows, would feel very dubious about the wisdom of our asking Mr Calvert to undertake these bread-and-butter duties. If he is as good at his research work as some of us are inclined to think he should not be encumbered with more pedestrian activities. We can always find willing horses among ourselves to carry out the more pedestrian activities. As for Mr Calvert, I should be inclined to say that I don’t expect a nightingale to crack nuts.”

Despard-Smith shook his head. He went on: “Many of us have to sacrifice our own interests for the college. I do not see why this young man should be an exception. I am also compelled to ask a second question, to which I attach even more serious importance. Is Mr Calvert sound enough in character to measure up to his responsibilities? We demand from our fellows a high standard of character. It will be scandalous if we ever cease to. It will be the beginning of the end. Speaking from many years’ judgment of men, I cannot conceal grave doubts as to whether Mr Calvert’s character has developed sufficiently to come up to our high standard.”

It was as open as the conventions allowed. All his life Despard-Smith had been used to damning people at this table by the solemn unspoken doubt. And the debate stayed at that level, full of anger, misunderstandings, personal imperialisms, often echoes of echoes that biased men for or against Roy, that made it urgent for them to vote him in or out that afternoon. For an instant, through my fret and anxiety, I thought this was how all humans judged each other. Lightweight, said one. Dilettante, said another (which I said was the least true comment I could imagine). Charming and modest, said one of the old men, who liked his looks. “At any rate, he’s not prosaic,” declared Jago, the Senior Tutor, the dramatic and brilliant, the most striking figure in the college. Chrystal, out of loyalty to Brown, did not discuss the incident at the feast, but said he intended to reserve judgment. Conceited and standoffish, said someone. Brown met all the opinions imperturbably, softened them when he could, gave a picture of Roy – quiet, devoted to his work, anxious to become a don in the old style. The Master’s politeness did not leave him, though it was strained as he heard some of the criticisms; he stayed quick and alert in the chair, and repressed all his sarcasms until the name of Luke came up.

But, when it came, his sarcasm was unfortunate. After the exchange of opinions about Roy’s personality, it became clear that we could not lose that afternoon. There were twelve men present (one was still ill). Of the twelve, six had now declared themselves as immovably determined to vote for Roy in this election – the Master, Brown, Jago, myself and the two senior fellows. There were four votes against for certain, with Chrystal and Getliffe still on the fence. At this point, Winslow, who had so far only interposed a few rude comments, took over the opposition from Despard-Smith. He talked of the needs of the college, gibed at the Master by speaking contemptuously of the “somewhat exotic appeal of esoteric subjects”, and finished by saying that he would like Getliffe to “ventilate” the question of Luke. Brown greeted them both with the blandest of encouragement: it was always his tactic to be most reasonable and amiable when things were going well.

In his taut crisp fashion Getliffe described Luke’s career in research. He was the son of a dockyard riveter – had won a scholarship from his secondary school, taken high firsts in his triposes (“there’s no difference between him and Calvert there,” said Francis), begun research in the Cavendish two years before. “He’s just finished that first bit of work,” said Francis Getliffe. “He’s said the last word on the subject.”

“Isn’t that just the trouble with some of your scientific colleagues, Mr Getliffe?” said the Master in a cheerful whisper. “They’re always saying the last word, but they never seem to say the first.”

There was laughter, but not from the scientists. Francis flushed. He was thin-skinned despite his strong will, and he was never self-forgetful on public occasions.

I was violently angry, on edge, distressed. It was innocent, it carried no meaning except that the Master liked to feel the witticism on his tongue: it was incredible that after all his years of intimate affairs he could not resist a moment’s score. Francis would not forgive him.

But Arthur Brown was on watch.

“I think I should like it known, Master,” he said in his rich, deliberate, fat man’s voice, “that I for one, and I rather fancy several others, are very much interested in Mr Luke’s candidature. If it weren’t for what are in our judgment the absolutely overwhelming claims of Mr Calvert, it would seem to me very difficult not to vote for the other young man today. He hasn’t had the advantages that most of our undergraduates have, and I consider his performance is perfectly splendid. Unfortunately I do feel myself obliged to vote for Mr Calvert this evening, but if Mr Getliffe brings up the other name next term, I rather fancy we can promise him a very sympathetic hearing.”

Brown gave Francis Getliffe, all down the length of the table, his broadest and most affable smile. After a moment, Francis’ cheeks creased with a good-natured grin. Brown was watching him with eyes that, behind the broad smile, did not miss the shadow of an expression: as soon as he saw Francis’ face relax, he spoke, still richly but very quick to get in first.

“I don’t know,” said Brown, “how far Mr Getliffe intends to press us about Luke this afternoon – in all the circumstances and considering what has just been said?”

Francis hesitated, and then said: “No, I won’t go any further. I take the strongest exception, Master, to any suggestion that Luke’s work is not original. It’s as original as any work can be. And I shall propose him at the first opportunity next year. I hope the college doesn’t let him slip. He’s quite first class. But I’m satisfied that Calvert has done distinguished work, and looks like going on with it. I’m ready to vote for him this afternoon.”

There was a hum, a rustle, a shuffle of papers. I glanced at Winslow: he pulled in his mouth in a grimace that was twisted, self-depreciating, not unpleasant. Arthur Brown was writing with great care on a quarter sheet of paper, and did not look up: the Master gave Francis a fresh, intimate, lively smile, and said: “I withdraw completely. Don’t take it amiss.”

Brown folded up his note, and wrote a name on it. It was passed round to me. Inside it read, simply: WE MIGHT HAVE LOST.

The straw vote followed soon after. There were seven votes for Roy, four against. Chrystal did not vote.

Before we made the statutory promises and gave our formal votes in writing, Despard-Smith got in a bleak speech in which he regretted that he could not vote for Calvert even for the sake of a gesture of unanimity. Winslow said that, for his part, he was prepared to give anyone the satisfaction of meaningless concord. At last, Roy was formally elected by ten votes to two, Despard-Smith and another sticking it out to the last.

The Master smiled. It was nearly seven o’clock, he was no more stale than when we began.

“I should like to congratulate everyone,” he said with his brisk courtesy, “on having done a good day’s work for the college.”

I went out of the room to send the butler in search of Roy. When I returned, the college was indefatigably considering the decoration of the hall, a subject which came on each list of agenda, roused the sharpest animosities, and was never settled. The old fellows took a more dominant part than in the election. Some of them had been arguing over college aesthetics for over fifty years, and they still disagreed with much acerbity. They were vigorously at it when the butler opened the door and announced that Mr Calvert was waiting. According to custom, the Master at once adjourned the meeting, and eyes turned towards the door.

Roy came in, lightfooted, his head high. Under his gown, he was wearing a new dark grey suit. Everyone watched him. His face was pale and grave. No one’s eyes could leave him, neither his friends’ nor those who had been decrying him half an hour before. As they saw his face, did he seem, I thought, like someone strange, alien, from another species?

He stood at the table, on the opposite side to the Master. The Master himself stood up, and said: “Mr Calvert, it is my pleasant duty to tell you that you have this day been elected into our society.”