The Light and the Dark (8 page)

Brown would not be hurried. “More haste, less speed,” he said comfortably. “If we have a misfire now, we can’t bring our young friend up again for a couple of years.” He did not propose to take an official step until he could “see his votes”. By statute, a fellowship had to be declared vacant before there could be any election. Brown could have collected a majority to vote for a vacancy: but it was not sensible to do so, until he was certain it could not be filled by anyone but Roy.

These dignified, broad-bottomed, middle-aged talks went on, seemingly enjoyed by most of those engaged. For they loved this kind of power politics, they knew it like the palm of their hands, it was rich with its own kind of solid human life. It was strange to hear them at work, and then see the subject of it all walk lightly through the college. There was a curious incongruity that he of all men should be debated on in those comfortable, traditional, respectable, guarded words: I felt it often when I looked at him, his white working coat over a handsome suit, reading a manuscript leaf at his upright desk: or watched him leave in his car, driving off to his London flat to meet Rosalind or another: or saw his smile, as I told him Arthur Brown’s latest move – “extremely statesman-like, extremely statesman-like,” mimicked Roy, for it was Brown himself who liked to use the word.

As a research student and ex-scholar, Roy was invited to the college’s summer feast. This took place near the first of June and was not such a great occasion as the two great feasts of the year, the audit and the commemoration of benefactors. The foundation plate was not brought out; nevertheless, on the tables in the hall silver and gold glittered in the candlelight. Well above the zone of candlelight, high towards the roof of the hall, the windows glowed with the light of the summer evening all the time we sat there and ate and drank. The vintages were not the college’s finest, but they were good enough; the food was lavish; as the high windows slowly darkened and the candles flickered down, the faces round one shone out, flushed, bright-eyed, and content.

It was to this feast that the college invited a quota of old members each year, selected at random from the college lists. As junior fellow, I was sitting at the bottom of one of the two lower tables, with an old member on each hand: Roy came next to one of these old members, with a fellow of another college on his left. It seemed that he decided early that the fellow was capable of looking after himself; from the first courses he devoted himself to making the old member happy, so that I could concentrate on the one on my right. With half an ear I kept listening to Roy’s success. His old member was a secondary schoolmaster of fifty, with a sensitive, unprepossessing, indrawn face. One felt that he had wanted much and got almost nothing. There was a streak of plain silliness in him, and failure had made him aggressive, opinionated, demanding. I tried, but he put me off before I could get close: in a few moments, he was giving advice to Roy, as an experienced man to a younger, and there was brilliance in the air. Roy teased him simply, directly, like a brother. It was all spontaneous. Roy had found someone who was naked to life. He laughed at his aggressiveness, stopped him when he produced too many opinions, got him back to his true feeling. Before the end of dinner Roy was promising to visit the school, and I knew he would.

The feast ended, and slowly the hall cleared as men rose and went by twos and threes into the combination room. At my table we were still sitting. Roy smiled at me. His eyes were brilliant, he was gay with wine, he looked at his happiest.

“It’s a pity we need to move, old boy,” he said.

On our way out, we passed the high table on the dais, where a small group was sitting over cigars and a last glass of port. Roy was whispering to me, when Chrystal called out: “Eliot! I want you to meet our guest.”

He noticed Roy, and added: “You too, Calvert! I want you all to meet our guest.”

Chrystal, the Dean, was a bald, beaky, commanding man, and “our guest” had been brought here specially that evening. He was an eminent surgeon to whom the university was giving an honorary degree in two days’ time. He sat by Chrystal’s side, red-complexioned, opulent, self-assured, with protruding eyes that glanced round whenever he spoke to make sure that all were listening. He nodded imperially to Roy and me, and went on talking.

“As I was saying, Dean,” he remarked loudly, “I feel strongly that a man owes certain duties to himself.”

Roy was just sitting down, after throwing his gown over the back of a chair. I caught a glint in his eyes. That remark, the whole atmosphere of Anstruther-Barratt, was a temptation to him.

“And those are?” said Chrystal respectfully, who worshipped success in any form.

“I believe strongly,” said Anstruther-Barratt, “that one ought to accept all the recognition that comes to one. One owes it to oneself.”

He surveyed us all.

“And yet, you wouldn’t believe it,” he said resonantly, “but I am quite nervous about Friday’s performance. I don’t feel I know all there is to be known about your academic things.”

“Oh, I think I should believe it,” said Roy in a clear voice. His expression was dangerously demure.

“Should you?” Anstruther-Barratt looked at him in a puzzled fashion.

“Certainly,” said Roy. “I expect this is the first time you’ve tried it–”

Roy had a grave, friendly look, and spoke as though Anstruther-Barratt was taking an elementary examination.

It was just possible that he did not know that Anstruther-Barratt was receiving an honorary degree. Chrystal must have thought it possible, for, looking on in consternation, he tried to break in.

“Calvert, I suppose you know–”

“Is it the first time?” Roy fixed the bold protruding eyes with a gaze brilliant, steady, acute, from which they seemed unable to escape.

“Of course it is. One doesn’t–”

“Just so. It’s natural for you to be nervous,” said Roy. “Everyone’s nervous when they’re trying something for the first time. But you know, you’re lucky, being a medical – I hope I’m right in thinking you are a medical?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter so much, does it? There’s nothing so fatal about it.”

Anstruther-Barratt looked badgered and bewildered. This young man appeared to think that he was a medical student up for an examination. He burst out: “Don’t you think I look a bit old to be–”

“Oh no,” said Roy. “It makes you much more nervous. You need to look after yourself more than you would have done twenty years ago. You oughtn’t to do any work between now and Friday, you know. It’s never worth while, looking at books at the last minute.”

“I wish you’d understand that I haven’t looked at books for years, young man.”

“Calvert,” Chrystal began again.

“You’ve done much more than you think,” said Roy soothingly. “Everyone feels as you do when it comes to the last day.”

“Nonsense. I tell you–”

“You must believe me. It’s not nonsense. We’ve all been through it.” Roy gave him a gentle, serious smile. “You ought to spend the day on the river tomorrow. And don’t worry too much. Then go in and win on Friday. We’ll look out for your name in the
Reporter
.”

Roy’s antic at the end of the feast meant more delay for Brown. He had listened to an indignant outburst from his old ally Chrystal, who was, like so many people, mystified by Roy’s manner. “I don’t know,” Chrystal snapped. “He may have thought Barratt was an old man who was trying to get qualified. In that case he’s a born bloody fool. Or it may be his idea of a joke. But I don’t want that sort of joke made by a fellow of this college. I tell you, Barratt was right up in the air about it. He earns £20,000 a year if he earns a penny, and he’s not used to being made an exhibition of.”

It did not seem as though anything could make Chrystal vote for Roy now, and Brown had to change his tactics. “It’s an infernal nuisance,” he said. “I should almost feel justified in washing my hands of the whole business. I wish you’d keep Calvert in order, the damned ass.”

But, though Brown was annoyed because his particular craft was being interfered with, he was secretly amused; and, like the born politician he was, he did not waste time thinking of opportunity lost. He was committed to getting Calvert in. He believed he was backing a great talent, he had a stubborn and unshakable affection for Roy (behind Brown’s comfortable flesh there was a deep sympathy with the wild), and with all the firmness of his obstinate nature he started on a new plan. Wait for the absentee to return in October: then invite down to the college the only two men in England who were authorities on Roy’s work. “It’s a risk,” said Brown in a minatory voice. “Some people may feel we’re using unfair influence. It’s one thing to write for opinions, it’s quite another to produce the old gentlemen themselves. But I’m anxious to give Getliffe something to think about. Our friends mustn’t be allowed to flatter themselves that we’ve shot our bolt.”

So, in the first week of the Michaelmas term, one of the customary college notes went out: “Those fellows who are interested in Mr R C E Calvert’s candidature may like to know that Sir Oulstone Lyall and Colonel E St G Foulkes, the chief authorities on Mr Calvert’s subject, will be my guests in hall on Sunday night. A B.”

The Master, after talking to Brown, thought it politic not to dine in hall that Sunday night; none of the old men came, though it was by now certain that the two seniors would vote for Roy; Despard-Smith had said, in a solemn grating voice the night before, that he had ordered cold supper for himself in his rooms. Winslow was the next in seniority, and he presided with his own cultivated rudeness.

“It’s a most remarkable occasion that we should have you two distinguished visitors,” he said as soon as dinner began. “We appear to owe this remarkable occasion to the initiative of our worthy Mr Brown.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Foulkes undiplomatically. “We’ve come to talk about Calvert.”

He was in his sixties, but neither his black hair nor his thick, downcurling, ginger moustache showed any grey at all. His cheeks were rubicund, his eyes a bright and startled brown. He always answered at extreme speed, as though the questions were reflected instantaneously off the front of his head. Action came more easily than reflection, one felt as soon as one heard him – and hot-tempered explosions a good deal more easily than comfortable argument. Yet he was fond of explaining the profound difference Yoga had meant in giving him peace beyond this world, since his time in the Indian Army. India had also led him to the study of the early Persian languages, as well as to Yoga – and everyone agreed that he was a fine scholar. He held a great many cranky interests at once, and at heart was fervent, wondering, and very simple.

“Indeed,” said Winslow. “Yes, I remember that we were promised the benefit of your judgment. I had a faint feeling, though, that we had already seen your opinion on paper about this young man. I may be stupid, I’m very ignorant about these things. But I seem to recall that the Master circulated what some of my colleagues would probably call a ‘dossier’.”

“Does no harm to say it twice,” said Colonel Foulkes at once. “You can’t do better.”

“If you please?”

“You can’t do better than Calvert. Impossible to get a better man.”

“It’s most interesting,” said Winslow, “to hear such a favourable opinion.”

“Not just my opinion,” said Colonel Foulkes. “Everyone agrees who’s competent to give one. Listen to Lyall.”

Sir Oulstone Lyall inclined his high, bald, domed head towards Winslow. He wore an impersonal, official, ambassadorial smile. He was used to being the spokesman for Central Asian history. He did it with a lofty gratification and self-esteem. It was noticeable that Foulkes deferred to him with admiration and respect.

“I must begin by covering myself under a warning, Mr President,” said Sir Oulstone in measured tones. “We all try to keep our sense of perspective, but it’s straining humanity not to exaggerate the importance of the subject to which one has devoted one’s small abilities for most of one’s life.”

Heads were nodded. The table was used to this kind of public approach. They could stand more pomp than most bodies of men.

“I must make that qualification,” said Sir Oulstone without any sign of hurry. “I may have a certain partiality for the studies with which I have associated for longer than I sometimes care to think. But, if you will kindly allow for that partiality, I may be able to assist you about Mr Calvert.” He paused. “I think I can say, with a full sense of responsibility, that among the younger workers Mr Calvert is the chief hope that our studies now possess.”

It never occurred to Sir Oulstone that the college might dispute his judgment. For a time, his confidence had a hypnotic effect on all there, and on Brown’s face there grew a comfortable, appreciative smile. Even Winslow did not produce a caustic remark, and it was left for Francis Getliffe to cross-examine Sir Oulstone about his detailed knowledge of Roy’s work. Francis, who was a precise and accurate man, knew that all Roy’s published work was linguistic – and he was right in thinking that Sir Oulstone was a historian, not a linguist at all. But Sir Oulstone was quite unperturbed by the questions: he turned to Foulkes, with the manner of one whistling up a technical assistant, and said with unshaken confidence: “Foulkes, I should like you to deal with that interesting point.” And Foulkes was off the mark at once.

Colonel Foulkes was off the mark even more rapidly when someone made a remark about Roy’s character.

“Splendid fellow. Everything you could wish for,” said Foulkes.

“I have heard reports,” said Winslow, “that the young man finds time for some night life. In the intervals of making his contribution to your subject, Sir Oulstone,” he added caustically, but I fancied that he was reluctant to bring in scandal. He had not done it before, and it was not his line.

“Nonsense,” said Colonel Foulkes instantaneously. “Fine clean-living fellow. He’s got his books and games, he doesn’t want anything else.”

Someone said a word, and Foulkes became incensed. “Listening to women’s gossip.” He glared round with hot, brown eyes. “Utterly unthinkable to anyone who knows Calvert as well as I do.”