The Masters (28 page)

‘We must get it for you,’ I said, with a feeling I had never had for him before.

There was a pause. Jago said: ‘I think I want it more than anything in the world.’

‘It’s strange,’ he added in a moment. ‘It’s extremely strange. When I was a young man, Eliot, I was ambitious. I wanted everything that a man can want. I wanted honour, riches and the love of women. Yes, I was ambitious. I’ve suffered through it. And now this is what I have come to want. It can’t be long now–’

He passed on to talk, with a curious content, of some appointments he would make as Master. He was enjoying in advance the pleasure of patronage: in his imagination the future was golden: for he pictured the college in years to come looking back upon his reign – ‘the greatest of our Masters’. Then that vision left him. He glanced at me almost fiercely and said: ‘You’ll be surprised how splendid my wife will turn out in the Lodge. She always rises to the occasion. I couldn’t bear to lose it now, on her account. She’s looking forward to it so much.’

I felt he wanted to say more about her, but he could not manage it. It had been a relief to talk of his ambition; perhaps it would have been a greater relief to let someone see into his marriage. But it was impossible. Certainly with me, a friendly acquaintance, a supporter, a much younger man. I believed that it would have been impossible with anyone. I believed he had never laid bare his heart about her. He had many friendly acquaintances, but, despite his warmth and candour, he seemed to have no intimate friends. I had the impression that he had not spoken even of his ambition so nakedly before.

Over tea, though he could not confide about his own marriage, he talked of one that would never happen. He had seen that Joan Royce longed to marry Roy. Jago switched from that one challenging remark about his wife to talk of them. Perhaps the switch showed what he was feeling in the depth of his heart. She ought to have been right for Roy, said Jago. Jago had once hoped that she would be. But she simply was not. And so it would be madness for Roy to marry her. No one outside can tell who is right for one. There are no rules. One knows it without help. Sometimes the rest of the world thinks one is wrong, but they cannot know.

Then his thoughts came back to himself. December 20th.

‘It can’t be long now,’ he said.

‘Thirteen days.’

‘Each day is a long time,’ said Jago.

Next afternoon, the bell tolled and the chapel filled up for the funeral. Lady Muriel and Joan sat in the front rows with their backs like pokers, not a tear on their faces, true to their Spartan training: they would not show a sign of grief in public and it was only with Roy that they broke down. All the fellows attended but Pilbrow, from whom there was still no news; even Winslow came into the chapel, for the first time since Royce’s election. Many of the heads of other colleges were there, all the seven professors of divinity, most of the orientalists and theologians in the university; and also a few men who went by habit from college to college for each funeral.

The wind had dropped, but the skies were low outside and a steady rain fell all day. Every light in the chapel was burning, and as they entered people blinked their eyes after the sombre daylight. The flowers on the coffin smelt sweet and sickly. There was a heavy quiet even when the chapel was packed.

Despard-Smith recited the service, and Gay, less dispirited than anyone there, chanted his responses with lusty vigour. ‘Lord, have mercy upon us,’ cried Despard-Smith: and I could distinguish Roy Calvert’s voice, light, reedy, and abnormally clear, as he said Amen.

Despard-Smith put into the service an eulogy of Royce. On the night the news of the death came to the combination room, Despard-Smith had spoken simply and without thinking: ‘he was a very human man’. But by now he had had time to think, and he pronounced the same praise as he had done so often. ‘Our first thoughts must go to his family in their affliction… Greater as their loss must be, we his colleagues know ours to be so catastrophic that only our faith can give us hope of building up this society again. We chiefly mourn this day, not the Master whom we all venerated, not the leader in scholarship who devoted all his life to searching for truth, but the kind and faithful friend. Many of us have had the blessing of his friendship for a lifetime. We know that no one ever turned to him for help in vain; no one ever found him to hold malice in his heart or any kind of uncharitableness; no one even believed he was capable of entertaining an unkind thought, or heard him utter an unkind word.’

I glanced at Roy. He had loved Royce: his eyes lost their sadness for a second as he heard that last singular piece of praise; there was the faint twitch of a smile on his lips.

In the even and unfaltering rain, a cavalcade of taxis rolled out to a cemetery in the suburbs, rolled past the lodging houses of Maid’s Causeway, the blank street front of the Newmarket Road. The fellows were allotted to taxis in order of seniority: Francis Getliffe, Roy Calvert, Luke and I shared the last. None of us spoke much, the heaviness rested on us, we gazed out of the streaming windows.

At the cemetery, we stood under umbrellas round the grave. Despard-Smith spoke the last words, and the earth rattled on the coffin.

We drove back, more quickly now, in the same group. The rain still pelted down without a break, but we all felt an inexplicably strong relief. We chatted with comfort, sometimes with animation: Francis Getliffe and Roy, who rarely had much to say to each other, exchanged a joke about Katherine’s father. There were wild spirits latent in each of us just then, if our conventions had given us any excuse. As it was, when the taxis drew up at the college, knots of fellows stood in the shelter of the great gate. The same pulse of energy was passing round. I expected one result to be that the truce would be broken by dinner time that night.

Actually, it took twenty-four hours for the truce to break in earnest. Then a rumour went round that Nightingale had threatened to ‘speak out’. It was certainly true that Francis Getliffe spent the afternoon arguing with Luke; I heard of the conversation from Luke himself, who could not bear to be separated for an hour from his work just then. His fresh skin had lost most of its colour, there were rings under his eyes, and he said angrily: ‘You’d have thought Getliffe was the last man in the bloody place to keep anyone away from the lab – just when the whole box of tricks may be tumbling out.’

‘You look tired,’ I said.

‘I’m not too tired to work,’ he retorted.

‘What did you tell Getliffe?’

‘Everyone else in this blasted college may change their minds twice a week,’ said young Luke, who was frantic with hope, who had anyway given up being tactful with me. ‘But
I
bloody well don’t.’

Francis’ attempt was fair enough, and so was another by Winslow to persuade me. Neither caused any comment, in contrast to a ‘flysheet’ which Nightingale circulated to each fellow on December 10th. In the flysheet Nightingale put down a list of Crawford’s claims to the Mastership, and ended with the sentence: ‘Mrs Crawford appears to many members of the college to be well fitted for the position of Master’s wife. This is not necessarily true of a candidate’s wife, and they attach great weight to this consideration.’

He said no more, but I was stopped in the court several times between lunch and dinner: – was this Nightingale’s final shot? was he going further? I was ready for an open scene in hall that night. Roy Calvert and I were the only members of Jago’s party dining, and Nightingale, Winslow, and Despard-Smith were sitting together. I had braced myself to take the offensive – when Jago, who had not come into hall since the Master’s death, walked in after the grace. Nightingale seemed to be waiting for a burst of fury, but there was none. Jago sat through the dinner talking quietly to me and Roy. Occasionally he spoke a civil word to Despard-Smith and Winslow. Nightingale he had come there to ignore, and not a word was spoken about the Mastership, either in hall or in the combination room.

As I was having breakfast next morning, December 11th, Brown came in, pink and businesslike.

‘I’ve been wondering whether to answer Nightingale’s latest effort,’ he said, sitting in the window seat. ‘But I’m rather inclined to leave it alone. Any reply is only likely to make bad worse. And I’ve got a sneaking hope that, now he’s started putting things on paper, he may possibly give us something to take hold of. I did sketch out a letter, but I had last minute qualms. I don’t like it, but it’s wise to leave things as they are.’

‘How are they?’ I asked.

‘I won’t pretend to you that I’m entirely comfortable,’ said Brown. ‘Though mind you it’s necessary for both of us to pretend to the other side. And perhaps’ – he looked at me – ‘it’s even more necessary to pretend to our own. But, between ourselves, things aren’t panning out as they should. I haven’t had a reply from Eustace Pilbrow. I sent off cables to every possible address within an hour after poor Royce died. And I sent off another batch yesterday. I shall believe Pilbrow is coming back to vote when I see him walking through the gate.’ He went on: ‘I had another disappointment last night. I went round with Chrystal to make another try to lobby old Gay. Well, we didn’t get any distance at all. The old boy is perfectly well up to it, but he won’t talk about anything except his responsibility for presiding over the college during the present period. He read the statutes to us again. But we didn’t begin to get anywhere.’

‘I wish you’d taken me,’ I said sharply.

‘I very much wanted to take Chrystal,’ said Brown. He saw that I was annoyed (for I did not believe they had ever been good at flattering Gay), and he spoke more frankly about his friend than at any time before. ‘I feel it’s a good idea to – keep up his interest in our campaign. He’s never been quite as enthusiastic as I should like. I have had to take it into account that he’s inclined to be temperamental.’

The telephone bell rang. Was Mr Brown with me? Mr Chrystal was trying to trace him urgently. Brown offered to go to Chrystal’s rooms; no, the Dean was already on his way up to mine.

Chrystal entered briskly, his eyes alight with purpose and the sense of action.

‘It’s a good day for the college,’ he said at once.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Brown, quick and suspicious.

‘I don’t think I’m entitled to say much more till this afternoon,’ said Chrystal. He was revelling in this secret. ‘But I can tell you that Despard-Smith received a letter from Sir Horace by the first post today. It’s very satisfactory, and that’s putting it mildly. There’s one thing that’s a bit cranky, but you’ll hear for yourselves soon enough. I’d like to tell you the whole story, but Despard showed me the letter in confidence.’

‘It sounds perfectly splendid,’ said Brown.

‘Despard didn’t see how we could do anything about it until we’d elected a Master. But I insisted that it would be lamentable to hold back the news of something as big as this,’ Chrystal said. ‘I had to tell Despard straight out that I wasn’t prepared to let that happen. If he wouldn’t summon an informal meeting himself, I would do it off my own bat.’

Brown smiled affably at his friend’s brisk triumphant air.

‘Wonderful,’ he said again.

‘That’s how we left it. I’ve got the college office running round to get hold of people for this afternoon. It shocked old Despard too much to think of having an informal meeting in the combination room.’ Chrystal gave a tough grin. ‘So it will be in my rooms. I’ve called it for 2.30. I tell you, Arthur, we’ve done something between us. It’s a good day for the college.’

When I arrived in Chrystal’s sitting-room that afternoon it was already arranged to seat the fellows, with a dozen chairs round the dining table. Ten men turned up by half-past two; Luke had gone early to the laboratory, did not return for lunch, and so no message had reached him; Gay was not there, and I suspected that Chrystal had taken care that that invitation had miscarried. We sat down round the table, all except Chrystal, who stood watching us, like a commanding officer.

‘It’s time we began,’ he said. ‘I move Mr Despard-Smith take the chair.’

Brown seconded, and there was a murmur, but Despard-Smith said: ‘I ought to say that I consider this meeting is definitely irregular. I find myself in a dilemma. It would be scandalous not to let the college know as soon as I properly can of a communication which I received this morning. On the other hand I cannot conceal from myself that the communication was sent to me under the misunderstanding that I still had the status of Deputy for the Master. I do not see the way clear for the college to receive an official communication during the
dies non
while there is a vacancy in the office of Master. I see grave difficulties whatever view we decide upon.’

At last, Despard-Smith was persuaded to take the chair (which, as Roy whispered, he had been determined to do all the time). He began: ‘The least irregular course open to us in my judgement is for me to disclose to you in confidence the contents of the communication I received this morning. I am p-positive that we cannot reply except to explain that I am no longer Deputy but that the letter will be laid before the new Master as soon as he is elected. Very well. The communication is from Sir Horace Timberlake, who I believe is a relative of one of our recent men. It will ultimately call for some very difficult decisions by the college, but perhaps I had better read it.

Dear Mr Deputy,

During the past year I have had many interesting talks upon the future of the college. I have had the privilege in particular of hearing the views of Dr Jago–’
(I wondered for a second if Sir Horace had timed his letter to assist Jago in the election; he was quite capable of it)
‘and frequently those of Mr Brown and Mr Chrystal. I should like to add my own small share to helping the college, feeling as I do its invaluable benefits to my nephew and the great part I can see it playing in the world. I am clear that the most useful assistance anyone can give the college at the present time is the endowment of fellowships, and I am clear that a substantial proportion should be restricted to scientific and engineering subjects. I wish to lay the minimum conditions upon the college, but I should not be living up to my own ideas of the future if I did not ask you to accept this stipulation. If the college can see its way to agree, I should be honoured to transfer to you a capital sum of £120,000–’
(there was a whistle from someone at the table)
‘which I take to be the equivalent to the endowment of six fellowships. This capital sum will be made over in seven equal yearly instalments, until the entire endowment is in your hands by 1944. Four of these six fellowships are to be limited to scientific and engineering subjects and one is to be held in any subject that the college thinks fit. You will appreciate that this letter is not a formal offer and I shall crystallize my ideas further if I learn that the general scheme is acceptable to the college. I shall also be able to crystallize my ideas about the one remaining fellowship which I hope to designate for a special purpose.’
I saw some puzzled frowns and could not imagine what was coming.
‘The best way to make a contribution to my purpose has not yet presented itself to me, but I am desirous of using this fellowship to help in the wonderful work of–’
Despard-Smith read solemnly
– ‘Mr Roy Calvert, by which I was so tremendously impressed. Possibly his work could be aided by a fellowship on special terms, but no doubt we can pursue these possibilities together. I am not sufficiently conversant with your customs to know whether you attach distinguishing titles to your endowments, and I should not wish in any case even to express a view on such a delicate topic.’