by C. P. Snow
‘It’s lamentable,’ Chrystal began, and went on to make a brisk, reasonable, friendly statement. It had been bad for the college to go through this prolonged suspense. He disliked being separated from his friends on the other side, and he hoped they disliked it too. Either of the candidates would be an excellent Master whom the college would be lucky to get. It was a sign of something wrong that the college should become unfit to live in just because they could not choose between two excellent men. But apparently they could not choose. ‘I’m just pointing out the snags,’ said Chrystal. ‘It’s lamentable. I don’t pretend to see the solution. But I just want to ask one question: has the time come to forget our disagreement? Has the time come to find a way out?’
From that moment the room was electric with attention. This was not just a talk: something was in the air. Even those who had not followed Chrystal’s progress knew something hung on these minutes. Brown’s face was lowering: Jago sat as though he did not hear.
We looked at each other, waiting for someone to begin. At last Crawford spoke. He was even more deliberate than his habit, not so impregnably assured: he was choosing his words.
‘I wish this was such a pleasant occasion as the last time we met in this room. I should much prefer to hear the Dean explain again how he and his friend Brown had brought off their great coup for the college. The more I reflect, the more chances I think that coup of theirs opens up in front of us. As for the present position, I agree with a good deal of what the Dean says. But I don’t consider this is the right time to act. I know this long wait hasn’t improved some of our tempers. But it won’t be much longer. Speaking as a fellow, I don’t see any alternative to waiting. I didn’t quite understand the Dean’s suggestion. I do not know whether he thinks that other names ought to be canvassed now. Speaking as a candidate, I can’t be expected to accept the view that other names ought to be considered at this late stage. I hope that the Senior Tutor agrees with me.’
‘Utterly.’
‘My advice is,’ said Crawford, ‘leave it until the day. One of us will be elected unless someone decides to throw away his vote. If neither of us is elected, then it will be time for us to have a talk.’
Jago had only spoken that one word since he entered the room. Now he roused himself. He had been keeping unnaturally still. By this night, even Crawford’s expression bore a trace of worry: but it was nothing to Jago’s. Yet he spoke with dignity.
‘If the college votes in chapel and cannot reach a majority for either my colleague or myself, it will be necessary for us all to meet together,’ he said. ‘It is not fitting either for me or my colleague to say more now. If the need should arise, we shall give what help we can to find a solution for the college. It would be our plain duty to do so.’
His eyes had rested in turn on Chrystal, Despard-Smith, and Brown. Now he looked at Crawford.
‘If the others wish to continue with their discussion,’ he said, ‘I think we must remove ourselves. There is nothing left for us to add.’
‘I agree,’ said Crawford, and they left the room.
We listened to their footsteps down the stairs. Chrystal said sharply to Despard-Smith: ‘I should like to hear what other people think.’
There was a pause. Pilbrow burst out that he was solid for Crawford, despite the lateness of his change, for reasons some of us knew. Another pause. Nightingale said with a smile that he would never vote for anyone but Crawford. Then Brown spoke, and during his whole speech his gaze did not leave Chrystal.
‘I’m glad to have this opportunity of explaining to most of the college,’ he said, ‘that I think we’re in danger of making a terrible mistake. Some people already know the strength of my views, but perhaps those of our number who support Crawford have not heard them. I should like to assure them that I believe Jago will be the best possible Master for the college, and I believe it with more absolute certainty than I have ever felt on such an occasion. Any departure from Jago would be a loss that the college might not be able to recover from for many years. During the rest of my time here, I should not be able to forget it.’
Everyone was looking at him and Chrystal. Many were puzzled, they did not know what was going on. Some saw the struggle clear. Yet everyone was looking at those two faces, the benign one, now flushed with anger, and the domineering.
No one spoke. Chrystal was regarding Brown as though there were a question to ask: there came an almost pathetic smile on Chrystal’s firm mouth.
Suddenly Chrystal looked away.
‘We’re not getting far,’ he said with a harsh, curt bravado. ‘I believe several of us are not satisfied with either candidate. Some of us never have been. I can speak out now they’ve gone. There’s something to be said for Jago: I’ve been resigned to voting for him, as you all know. There’s something to be said for Crawford: I’ve seen things in him lately that I like, and I understand his supporters’ point of view. But we’re not tied to either of them. I believe that’s the way out.’
‘What are you proposing?’ said Despard-Smith.
‘I want to bring it to a head,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m ready to form a cave. Will any of you join me? I should like to find another man altogether.’
Part Four
Morning In The Chapel
39: A Group Talks Till the Morning
‘I wanted to bring it to a head,’ Chrystal said again. ‘I should like to find another man altogether. This is the time. We might get somewhere tonight.’
He leaned forward over the table, with an eager, alert, dominating smile.
There was a shuffle of feet, a cough, the squeak of someone’s finger on the table top. Some moments passed, and then Pilbrow got to his feet.
‘I don’t think it’s any good my staying, Despard,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to find another man, which I suppose you are, I don’t want to run away, but… I know I’ve wobbled disgracefully, but I don’t feel like changing again. I’m content as I am.’
He had not left the room when Nightingale began talking. He was so excited that he had no politeness left.
‘I always said it would happen. I always knew that that precious clique wouldn’t let well alone. They were bound to put up one of themselves in the long run.’
‘Are you going to stay, Nightingale?’ said Despard-Smith bleakly. ‘If you stay, you will hear what names are being discussed.’
‘Stay!’ Nightingale smiled. ‘Do you think I want to hear the names? I could tell you them now.’
As he closed the door, Roy commented: ‘I’ll bet anyone that he rings up Crawford within five minutes.’ Solidly, heavily, Brown stood by the table, looking down on those of us still there.
‘I can’t see my way to remaining in this discussion,’ he said to Despard-Smith. ‘I’ve gone as far as I can to turn you all from it. In my judgement, it is completely ill-considered, and I should have nothing useful to add if I stayed with you.’
He gave Chrystal one glance, angry, troubled, unwavering, yet steady and still intimate: he walked out, and we heard his deliberate tread down the stairs.
Chrystal was frowning – but he shrugged his shoulders and said, with confidence and zest: ‘It’s time to get down to it.’
There were only six of us now sitting round the table, Chrystal himself, Despard-Smith, Winslow, Francis Getliffe, Roy Calvert and I. It was not a good beginning for Chrystal: even if he could persuade us all, he still needed another for a majority. But his confidence was extreme, his energy flowed out just as when he had made us coerce the candidates in October. When someone mentioned that we were not much of a cave, Chrystal said: ‘I don’t mind that. We can bring others in. There’s Luke. There’s even Crawford. And the others – they may not want to stay out in the cold.’
Promptly he brought out his first candidate.
‘I’m not going to be coy,’ he said. ‘I have someone in mind. In my view the time has come to look outside the college. I want you to think of Lyon.’
Most of us knew Lyon; he
was a Reader, a fellow of another college, a man of good academic standing and a bit of a university politician. In a few minutes it was apparent that he would get no support. We all gave reasons for half-heartedness – but the reasons were a matter of courtesy, a way of saying we were not disposed to fall in.
Chrystal, still undeterred, canvassed another name, also from outside the college, and then another. Different reasons were brought against them, but there was never a chance that either would be looked at: at the sound of each name, everyone there was saying no. It was not that we had anything special against them; simply, we did not want to find them suitable. By now I was sure that Chrystal would get nowhere. I had seen him in October carry us, by sheer force of will, into dragooning the candidates to vote for each other. But then we had all been ready to be convinced, and now the reverse was true. He was exuding just as much will, and few men had more than Chrystal. But in our hearts we were not persuadable; and in all the moves of politics, dexterity is meaningless, even will itself does not avail, unless there is some spot in one’s opponent ready to be convinced. ‘Most reluctantly,’ said Despard-Smith, after we had discussed the third name, ‘I am coming to the conclusion, Dean, that it is too late in the day to look outside the college.’
‘I accept that for the moment, Despard,’ said Chrystal, still brisk and good-tempered. ‘But we’ve not finished. In that case we must look inside.’
It was late at night, the room was hot, smoke was spinning slowly under the light: the older men were sleepy, and once Winslow’s eyes had closed. But, at the sound of that last remark, they were awake, vigilant, ready once more for the long cautious guarded talk. Winslow lit his pipe again; as the match flared, a trick of the shadows smoothed out the nutcracker lines of nose and chin, and his eyes gleamed, deep, bright – and anxious. Yes, anxious. Was there still a remnant of hope? ‘We must look inside,’ said Chrystal.
‘Of course,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘all of us gave serious thought to the possibilities when we heard the disastrous news last spring. Or if we didn’t we were very seriously negligent.’
‘Never mind,’ said Chrystal. ‘I want to go over them once more. We shan’t get the chance again. It’s no use having second thoughts after Thursday.’
‘Some of us,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘are always coming to bolt the stable door after the horse has f-flown.’
‘They won’t this time,’ said Chrystal. He stared round at us all. ‘Well, we’ve got to look inside. I’m going down the fellows in order of seniority. Gay. Pilbrow. You, Despard. The statutes won’t let us have you.’
‘I supported the new statute about the retiring age,’ said Despard-Smith solemnly. ‘I’ve often asked myself whether I did right. Some men of seventy are still competent to hold any position of responsibility–’
‘You would be,’ interrupted Chrystal. In his brusque way he was placating the old man. And he was looking two moves ahead: I thought I guessed his intention now. ‘You would be. No one doubts it. But it can’t happen.’ He paused. ‘Going on down the list.’ He added in a tone which he kept casual and matter of fact: ‘Winslow. Winslow, you’re the next.’
‘Curiously enough,’ said Winslow, also trying to be casual, ‘I was aware of that.’
‘Do you think,’ said Despard-Smith in a hurry, ‘that you’d feel satisfied to take on such an office for a very short time? I doubt whether it is fair to ask a man to take an office with only five years to run.’
‘I should actually have seven years. I was sixty-three in October,’ said Winslow.
‘You’d just learn the job. Then you’d have to go. I agree with Despard,’ said Chrystal, looking at Winslow with a bold, embarrassed smile.
‘I seriously doubt,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘whether it would be fair to ask you.’
‘When is it fair to ask anyone?’ said Roy Calvert. His eyes were glinting with mockery: he was moved for Winslow.
Before he could say more, Francis Getliffe put in: ‘On general principles, there is something to be said for a younger man. We ought to have someone with at least ten years to go. I know you’d take that view yourself, wouldn’t you?’ He spoke to Winslow directly.
Francis had got on better with Winslow than most of the college, and the question was kind. But it did not soften the fact. Winslow’s eyelids had drooped, he was staring at the table.
He said at last: ‘No doubt you’re right.’
‘I was certain you’d see it that way, Winslow,’ said Chrystal, with relief, with excessive heartiness. I was watching Roy Calvert, half-expecting him to say more: but he gave a twitch of a smile, and let it slide. It was too forlorn a hope even for him.
Chrystal proceeded down the list.
‘Crawford. Jago. Already dealt with. Brown. The next senior is Brown,’ he said. ‘Brown. I’m asking you to think carefully about him. Isn’t he the man for a compromise candidate?’
Winslow looked up for a second.
‘That’s a very remarkable suggestion, Dean,’ he said with savage sarcasm, with a flicker of his old spirit.
‘Isn’t he much too young? I don’t see how the college could possibly consider anyone so junior,’ said Despard-Smith.
‘He’s forty-seven,’ said Chrystal.
‘It’s dangerous to have young men in these positions,’ said Despard-Smith. ‘One never knows how they’ll turn out.’
‘Brown won’t alter till he dies,’ I said. It seemed strange that anyone, even Despard-Smith, should think of Brown as young.
‘I don’t think his age is a reason against him,’ said Francis Getliffe. ‘But–’
‘I know everything you’re going to say,’ said Chrystal. ‘I know all about Brown. I know him better than any one of you. He’s been my best friend since we were up together. He’s not brilliant. He’ll never set the Thames on fire. People would think it was a dim election. But there are things in Brown that you don’t see until you’ve known him for years. He’d pull the place together.’
‘My dear Dean,’ said Winslow, ‘it would mean twenty years of stodge.’
‘I should have considered,’ said Despard-Smith, ‘that if we were to take the serious step of looking at such junior fellows, we should want to consider you yourself long before Brown.’
‘I couldn’t look at it,’ said Chrystal. ‘I’m not up to it. I know my limitations. I’m not fit to be Master. Brown is. I’d serve under him and think myself lucky.’
He spoke with absolute humility and honesty. It was not put on, there was none of the stately mannered mock-modesty of college proceedings. This was the humility and honesty of his heart. It was so patent that no one challenged it.
He pressed on about Brown. I said that I would prefer him to any other compromise candidate. Less warmly, Roy said that, if the first vote in chapel did not give Jago a majority, he would not mind transferring to Brown on the second turn. Francis Getliffe said that, if the first vote were a stalemate, he would consider doing the same as Roy. With that kind of backing, such as it was, Chrystal argued with the other two into the early morning: he was not touchy, he did not give way to pique, he just sat there and argued as the quarters went on chiming away the night; he sat there, strong in his physical prepotence, persuading, browbeating, exclaiming with violence, wooing and bursting into temper.
Everyone in the room but himself knew that he must fail. Winslow was mostly silent, but every word he spoke was edged with unhappy contempt. Despard-Smith was solemnly obstinate. Everyone knew but Chrystal that neither would ever consent to vote for Brown. The last hope of compromise had gone. Yet Chrystal seemed undiscouraged. By midnight the rest of us would have given it up as useless but he kept us there till after two o’clock.
At the last he won one concession through the others’ sheer fatigue. He got them to admit that Brown was the only possible third candidate.
‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘Several of us here have said they might come round to him. Do you quarrel with that, Despard?’
Despar
d-Smith wearily shook his head.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Chrystal. ‘It means that Brown must be asked whether he’ll stand. It may come to it. We can’t leave it in the air. I’ll speak to him in the morning.’
His face was fresh, he was smiling, he was obscurely satisfied. He looked at his clock on the mantelpiece.
‘I shan’t have to wait long,’ he said. ‘It is the morning already.’
40: ‘I Have Had a Disappointing Life’
Chrystal had kept us up so late that I slept until the middle of the morning. It was December 17th, a dark and stormy day: the wind was howling again, for the westerly gales had returned; it was not cold, but the heavy clouds hung over the roofs, and in the afternoon Roy and I built up the fire in my sitting-room for the sake of the blaze. We compared impressions of Chrystal’s tactics and manner on the night before. Why had he persisted against all rational sense? Why had he gone away so pleased? Was it because he wanted to prove to Brown that, whatever he did in this election, he was still completely affectionate and loyal? That was part of it, we felt sure: but we did not believe it was the end.
As we were talking across the fire, a double and deliberate knock sounded on the door. ‘Uncle Arthur in person,’ said Roy, and we both smiled as Brown came in. But Brown’s smile in return was only formal.
He sat down, looked into the fire, and said in a constrained tone: ‘I wanted to see you both. I am told that, without my consent, I was mentioned as a candidate last night. Did you have anything to do with this?’
