by C. P. Snow
‘Splendid,’ said Brown.
‘As for the campaign,’ said Jago with a brilliant smile, ‘I put myself at your disposal, and no one could be in better hands.’
Chrystal took charge. ‘There’ll be opposition,’ he said.
‘You don’t think I mind that, do you?’ said Jago.
‘You don’t mind, but we do,’ said Chrystal sharply. ‘We’re bound to, as we’re taking the responsibility of running you. The opposition will be serious. It will come from an influential part of the college. They’re the people I call the obstructors.’
‘Who are they, when it comes to the point?’ said Jago, still exhilarated.
‘I haven’t started counting heads,’ said Chrystal. ‘But there’s Winslow, for certain. There’s old Despard–’
‘Crawford, if he isn’t a candidate,’ Brown put in.
‘I don’t believe he’s in a particularly good position to be impartial,’ said Jago. ‘And as for the other two, I’m not depressed by their opposition. They’re just two embittered old men.’
‘That’s as may be,’ said Chrystal. ‘But they’re also two influential old men. They get round, they won’t let you in by default. I didn’t mean to say we shan’t work it. I think we’ve got a very good chance. But I wanted to warn you, this isn’t going to be a walkover.’
‘Thank you, Dean, thank you. Don’t let me run away with myself.’ Jago was friendly, gracious, full of joy. ‘But I’m glad that we’ve got the younger men on our side. I wouldn’t exchange those two old warriors for Calvert and Eliot here. If we can call on the young men, Dean, we can do something with the college. It’s time we took our rightful place. We can make it a great college.’
‘We shall need money,’ said Chrystal, but his own imagination was stirred. ‘We’re not rich enough yet to cut much of a dash. Perhaps we can get money. Yes–’
‘It’s inspiring to listen to you,’ Brown said to Jago. ‘But, if I were you, I shouldn’t talk too much in public about your plans. People might think you were too ambitious. We don’t want to put their backs up. I’m anxious that nothing you say in the next few months shall give them a handle against you.’
I watched their heads, grouped round the desk, their faces glowing with their purpose – Brown’s purple-pink, rubicund, keen-eyed, Chrystal’s beaky, domineering, Jago’s pale, worn with the excesses of emotion, his eyes intensely lit. Each of these three was seeking power, I thought – but the power each wanted was as different as they were themselves. Brown’s was one which no one need know but himself; he wanted to handle, coax, guide, contrive, so that men found themselves in the places he had designed; he did not want an office or title to underline his power, it was good enough to sit back amiably and see it work.
Chrystal wanted to be no more than Dean, but he wanted the Dean, in this little empire of the college, to be known as a man of power. Less subtle, less reflective, more immediate than his friend, he needed the moment-by-moment sensation of power. He needed to feel that he was listened to, that he was commanding here and now, that his word was obeyed. Brown would be content to get Jago elected and influence him afterwards, no one but himself knowing how much he had done. That was too impalpable a satisfaction for Chrystal. Chrystal was impelled to have his own part recognized, by Jago, by Brown, and the college. As we spoke that evening, it was essential for Chrystal that he should see his effect on Jago himself. He wanted nothing more than that, he was no more ambitious than Brown – but irresistibly he needed to see and feel his power.
Jago enjoyed the dramatic impact of power, like Chrystal: but he was seeking for other things besides. He was an ambitious man, as neither Brown nor Chrystal were. In any society, he would have longed to be first; and he would have longed for it because of everything that marked him out as different from the rest. He longed for all the trappings, titles, ornaments, and show of power. He would love to hear himself called Master; he would love to begin a formal act at a college meeting ‘I, Paul Jago, Master of the college…’ He wanted the grandeur of the Lodge, he wanted to be styled among the heads of houses. He enjoyed the prospect of an entry in the college history – ‘Dr P Jago, 41st Master’. For him, in every word that separated the Master from his fellows, in every ornament of the Lodge, in every act of formal duty, there was a gleam of magic.
There was something else. He had just said to Chrystal ‘we can make it a great college’. Like most ambitious men, he believed that there were things that only he could do. Money did not move him in the slightest; the joys of office moved him a great deal; but there was a quality pure, almost naive, in his ambition. He had dreams of what he could do with his power. These dreams left him sometimes, he became crudely avid for the job, but they returned. With all his fervent imagination, he thought of a college peaceful, harmonious, gifted, creative, throbbing with joy and luminous with grace. In his dreams, he did not altogether know how to attain it. He had nothing of the certainty with which, in humility, accepting their limitations, Chrystal and Brown went about their aims, securing a benefaction from Sir Horace, arranging an extra tutorship, making sure that Luke got a grant for his research. He had nothing of their certainty, nor their humility: he was more extravagant than they, and loved display far more; in his ambition he could be cruder and more predatory; but perhaps he had intimations which they could not begin to hear.
9: Quarrel with a Friend
When I arrived in the combination room that evening, Winslow, Nightingale and Francis Getliffe were standing together. They had been talking, but as they saw me at the door there was a hush. Winslow said: ‘Good evening to you. I hear you’ve been holding your adoption meeting, Eliot?’
Nightingale asked: ‘Did you all get the reception you wanted?’
‘It was very pleasant. I’m sorry you weren’t there,’ I said. It was from him, of course, that they had heard the news. There was constraint in the air, and I knew that Francis Getliffe was angry. He had returned from Switzerland that day, deeply sunburned; his strong fine-drawn face – I thought all of a sudden, seeing him stand there unsmiling – became more El Greco-like as the years passed.
‘Aren’t you even going to see your candidate?’ I asked Winslow. ‘Do you prefer to do it all by correspondence?’ Sometimes he liked to be teased, and he knew I was not frightened of him. He gave an indulgent grin.
‘Any candidate I approved of would be fairly succinct on paper,’ he said. ‘Your candidate, if I may say so, would not be so satisfactory in that respect.’
‘We are appointing a Master, you know, not a clerk,’ I said.
‘If the college is misguided enough to elect Dr Jago,’ said Winslow ‘I shall beg to be excused when I sometimes fail to remember the distinction.’
Nightingale gave a smile – as always when he heard a malicious joke. He said: ‘My view is, he will save us from worse. I don’t object to him – unless someone better turns up.’
‘It should not be beyond the wit of men to discover someone better,’ said Winslow. Though he had talked once of ‘going outside’, Brown assumed that he would ‘come round’ to Crawford; but he had not so much as mentioned the name yet.
‘I don’t see this college doing it. It always likes to keep jobs in the family. That being so, I’m not displeased with Jago,’ said Nightingale.
I heard the door open, and Chrystal walked up to shake hands with Francis Getliffe, who had not spoken since I came in.
‘Good evening to you, Dean,’ said Winslow. I said, in deliberate candour: ‘We were just having an argument about Jago. Two for, and two against.’
‘That’s lamentable,’ Chrystal stared at Getliffe. ‘We shall have to banish the Mastership as a topic in the combination room. Otherwise the place won’t be worth living in.’
‘You know what the result of that would be, my dear Dean?’ said Winslow. ‘You would have two or three knots of people, energetically whispering in corners. Not but what,’ he added, ‘we shall certainly come to that before we’re finished.’
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‘It’s lamentable,’ said Chrystal, ‘that the college can’t settle its business without getting into a state.’
‘That’s a remarkable thought,’ said Winslow. As Chrystal was replying tartly, the butler announced dinner: on the way in, Francis Getliffe gave me a curt word: ‘I want a talk with you. I’ll come to your rooms after hall.’
We were sitting down after grace when Luke hurried in, followed by Pilbrow, late as he had been so often in his fifty years as a fellow. He rushed in breathlessly, his bald head gleaming as though it had been polished. His eyes were brown and sparkling, his words tumbled over each other as he apologized: he was a man of seventy-four, with the spontaneity, the brilliance, the hopes of a youth.
Chrystal had not been able to avoid Winslow’s side, but he talked diagonally across the table to Francis Getliffe.
‘Have we fixed the date of the next feast, Getliffe?’ he asked.
‘You should have written it down in your pocketbook, my dear Dean,’ said Winslow. Chrystal frowned. Actually, he knew the date perfectly well. He was asking because he had something to follow.
‘February the 12th. A month tomorrow,’ said Francis Getliffe, who had during the previous summer become Steward.
‘I hope you’ll make it a good one,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m asking you for a special reason. I happen to have a most important guest coming.’
‘Good work,’ said Francis Getliffe mechanically, preoccupied with other thoughts. ‘Who is he?’
‘Sir Horace Timberlake,’ Chrystal announced. He looked round the table, ‘I expect everyone’s heard of him.’
‘I am, of course, very ignorant of these matters,’ said Winslow. ‘But I’ve seen his name occasionally in the financial journals.’
‘He’s one of the most successful men of the day,’ said Chrystal. ‘He controls a major industry. He’s the chairman of Howard and Haslehurst.’
From the other side of the table, Francis Getliffe caught my eye. The name of that company had entered his wife’s life, and I knew the story. In the midst of his annoyance, he gave a grim, intimate smile of recognition.
Nightingale smiled.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘he might be called one of these business knights.’
‘He’s none the worse for that,’ retorted Chrystal.
‘Of course he’s none the worse for that,’ Pilbrow burst out from the lower end of the table. ‘I’ve never been much addicted to business-men, but really it’s ridiculous to put on airs because they become genteel. How else do you think anyone ever got a title? Think of the Master’s wife. What else were the Bevills but a set of sharp Elizabethan business men? It would be wonderful to tell her so.’ He exploded into joyful laughter. Then he talked rapidly again, this time to Winslow, several places away at the head of the table. ‘The trouble with your ancestors and mine, Godfrey, isn’t that they made money, but that they didn’t make quite enough. Otherwise we should have found ourselves with titles and coronets. It seems to me a pity whenever I order things in a shop. Or whenever I hear pompous persons talking nonsense about politics. I should have liked to be a red Lord.’
‘Of course,’ he said, following his process of free association, ‘snobbery is the national vice. Much more than other things which foreigners give us credit for.’ He often talked so fast that the words got lost, but phrases out of Havelock Ellis bubbled out – ‘le vice anglaise’, I heard.
Pilbrow was delighted with the comparison. When he had quietened down, he said: ‘By the way, I’ve hooked an interesting guest for the feast too, Getliffe.’
‘Yes, Eustace, who is it?’
Pilbrow produced the name of a French writer of great distinction. He was triumphant.
In matters of art, the college’s culture was insular and not well informed. The name meant nothing to most men there. But nevertheless they wanted to give Pilbrow the full flavour of his triumph. All except Chrystal and Nightingale. Chrystal was piqued because this seemed to be stealing Sir Horace’s thunder; Sir Horace had been jeered at by Nightingale that night, and Chrystal was sensitive for his heroes; he also liked solid success, and a French writer, not even one he had heard of, not even a famous one, was flimsy by the side of Sir Horace. He was huffed to notice that I took this Frenchman seriously, and told Pilbrow how much I wanted to meet him.
Nightingale did what seemed impossible, and detested Pilbrow. He was full of envy at Pilbrow’s ease, gaiety, acquaintance with all the cultivated world. He knew nothing of Pilbrow’s artistic friends, but hated them. When Pilbrow announced the French writer’s name, Nightingale just smiled.
The rest of us loved Pilbrow. Even Winslow said: ‘As you know, Eustace, I understand these things very little – but it will be extremely nice to see your genius. I stipulate, however, that I am not expected to converse in any language but my own.’
‘Would you really like him next to you, Godfrey?’
‘If you please. If you please.’
Pilbrow beamed. All of us, even the youngest, called him by his Christian name. He had been a unique figure in the college for very long. He would, as he said, have made a good red Lord. And, though he came from the upper middle classes, was comfortably off without being rich (his father had been the headmaster of a public school), many people in Europe thought of him in just that way. He was eccentric, an amateur, a connoisseur; he spent much of his time abroad, but he was intensely English, he could not have been anything else but English. He belonged to the fine flower of the peaceful nineteenth century. A great war had not shattered his feeling, gentlemanly and unselfconscious, that one went where one wanted and did what one liked.
If nostalgia ever swept over him, he thrust it back. I had never known an old man who talked less of the past. Long ago he had written books on the Latin novelists, and the one on Petronius, where he found a subject which exactly fitted him, was the best of its kind; all his books were written in a beautifully lucid style, oddly unlike his cheerful, incoherent speech. But he did not wish to talk of them. He was far more spirited describing some Central European he had just discovered, who would be a great writer in ten years.
He went round Europe, often losing his head over a gleam of talent. One of his eccentricities was that be refused to dress for dinner in a country under a totalitarian regime, and he took extreme delight in arriving at a party and explaining why. Since he was old, known in most of the salons and academies of Europe, and well connected, he set embassies some intricate problems. He did not make things easier for them by bringing persecuted artists to England, and spending most of his income upon them. He would try to bring over anyone a friend recommended – ‘everything’s got to be done through nepotism’, he said happily. ‘A pretty face may get too good a deal – but a pretty face is better than a committee, if it comes to bed.’
He had never married, but he did not seem lonely. I believed that there were days of depression, but if so he went through them in private. In public he was irrepressible, an enfant terrible of seventy-four. But it was not the exuberant side of him that I most admired; it was not that no one could think of him as old; it was that he, like other people who do good, was at heart as tough as leather, healthily self-centred at the core.
Chrystal came back to the feast.
‘There’s one thing we can’t overlook. I’ve already warned my guest. I don’t know how others feel, but I can’t bring myself to like having a feast here with the Master dying in the Lodge. Still, we’ve got no option. If we cancel it, it gives the show away. But, if they’ve told the Master the truth before the time of the feast, we should have to cancel it. Even at an hour’s notice. I shouldn’t have much patience with anyone who didn’t agree.’
‘I think we should all agree,’ said Winslow. ‘Which is a very surprising and gratifying event, don’t you think so, Dean?’
He spoke with his usual caustic courtesy, and was surprised to find Chrystal suddenly rude. He had not realized, he still did not, that Chrystal had spoken with deep feelin
g and was shocked by the sarcastic reply. In turn, Winslow became increasingly caustic, and Nightingale joined in.
I noticed young Luke, the observant and discreet, watching this display of conflicts, and missing nothing.
There was no wine that night. Pilbrow left for a party immediately after hall; cultivated Cambridge parties were not complete without him, he had been attending them for over fifty years. Between the rest of us there was too much tension for a comfortable bottle. Winslow gave his ‘Goodnight to you’, and sauntered out, swinging the cap, which, in his formal style, he was the only one of us to bring into the room. I followed, and Francis Getliffe came after me.
He said, the moment we were inside my sitting-room: ‘Look, I’m worried about this talk of Jago.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s bloody foolish. We can’t have him as Master. I don’t know what you can be thinking about.’
We were still standing up. A vein, always visible when he was angry, stood out in the middle of Francis’ forehead. His sunburn made him look well, on the surface; but under the eyes the skin was darkened and pouched by strain. He had been doing two men’s work for months – his own research, on the nature of the ionosphere, and his secret experiments for the Air Ministry. The secret was well kept, neither I nor anyone in the college knew any details until three years later, but he was actually busy with the origins of radar. He was tired, and overloaded with responsibility. His fundamental work had not received the attention that he looked for, and his reputation was not yet as brilliant as we had all prophesied. He was seeing some of his juniors overtake him; it was hard to bear.
Now he was throwing every effort into a new research. It had not yet started smoothly. It was an intolerable nuisance for him to come back to this trouble over the Mastership. He did not want to think about it, he was overtaxed already with the anxieties of air defence and the gnawing doubt that his new thoughts about the propagation of waves would not quite work out. Plunged into the middle of this human struggle he felt nothing but goaded irritation and impatience.
