by C. P. Snow
It was not only that he winced at the thought of seeing his acquaintances in the streets. That wound would mend in time. He had also lost something in himself, and I did not see how he could get it back. He was a man diffident among his fellows in the ordinary rub and wear of life: it was hard for him to be a man among ordinary men; he was profoundly diffident about his power among men. That diffidence came no one knew from where, had governed so many of his actions, had prevented him from reaching the fame and glory which he believed was his by right. Very slowly he had built up a little store of confidence. Somehow men had come to respect him – he nearly believed it at the age of fifty. This Mastership was a sign for him. That explained, as I had already thought, the obsessive strength of his ambition. The Mastership meant that men esteemed him; they thought of him as one of themselves, as better than themselves. Listening to Brown and Chrystal when they asked him to stand, Jago had felt that he could have had any kind of success, he felt infused by confidence such as he had never known, It was one of the triumphant moments of his life.
He had become obsessed by the ambition: he had hated the path along which it had led him; the disappointments, the anxieties, the inhibitions, the humiliations – they corroded him because they brought back his diffidence again. But always he was buoyed up when he thought of his party and the place they would win for him. Above all, he was buoyed up by the support of Brown and Chrystal. He did not like Chrystal; they were as different as men could be; but that antipathy made Chrystal’s support more precious. He resented Chrystal’s management, he thought Chrystal was a coarse-minded party boss – but even when he wanted to quarrel, he thought with wonder and delight ‘this man believes in me! this man is competent, down-to-earth – and he’s ready to make me Master! If such a man believes in me, I can believe in myself!’
That night Chrystal had drained away the little store of confidence. Would it ever be refilled? It would be harder now than when Jago first became ambitious, first wished to prove himself among men.
It was eleven o’clock, the clock was just striking, when he began to speak about his wife. She had been his first thought in Brown’s room. He had not brought himself to mention her since.
‘She will be waiting up for me,’ he said. ‘I shall hurt her beyond bearing when I see her. I’ve tried hard all my life not to hurt her. Now I can’t see a way out.’
‘Won’t she guess there’s something wrong?’
‘That won’t make it easier – when she hears it’s true.’
‘She’ll bear it,’ I said, ‘because it comes from you.’
‘That makes it a hundred times worse.’
‘For you. But not for her.’
‘If I brought bad news from outside,’ said Jago, ‘I should not be afraid for a single instant. She is very brave in every way in which a human being can be brave. If this place shut down and we’d lost every penny, I’d tell her the news and she’d start getting ready to work the next minute. But this is horribly different.’
I did not question him.
‘Don’t you see,’ he cried, ‘that she will accuse herself?’
He added quietly: ‘She will be certain to think it is her fault.’
‘We must tell her it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Roy and I must explain exactly what has happened.’
‘She will never believe you. She’ll never believe any of you.’ He paused. ‘I’m very much afraid that she will not believe me.’
‘Is it no use our trying?’
‘I’m afraid that nothing will reassure her,’ said Jago. ‘I think she trusts me – yet she can’t believe me when it concerns herself. I’ve not brought her peace of mind. If she’d married another man, she might have found it. I don’t know. I hoped I could make her happy, and I haven’t done.’
‘I know what you feel,’ I said.
‘So you do,’ said Jago – a smile, evanescent but brotherly, shone for an instant through his pain.
‘I don’t believe anyone else could have made her as happy.’
‘I’ve seen her in the worst hours,’ said Jago. He went on in despair: ‘Yet I’ve never done anything to hurt her until now. If I’d been the cruellest of men, I couldn’t have found a way to hurt as much as this. I cannot bear to see her face when I tell her. She will be utterly beside herself – and I shall be no good to her.’
With his chin in his hands, he looked into the fire. For many minutes he was silent. At last he spoke as though there had been no pause.
‘I think I could endure it all,’ he said, ‘if it were not for her.’
45: The Election
On the morning of the election, I woke while it was still dark. There were knocks at the great gate, the rattle of the door opening, the clink of keys, voices in the court; it was six o’clock, and the servants were coming in to work. Although I had been late to bed, telling Roy the final news, I could not get to sleep again. The court quietened, and the first light of the winter dawn crept round the edges of the blind. As the grey morning twilight became visible in the dark room, I lay awake as I had done in other troubles and heard the chimes ring out over the town with indifferent cheerfulness. I was full of worry, though there was nothing left to worry about.
The light increased; there were footsteps, not only servants’, passing through the court; I recognized Chrystal’s quick and athletic tread. Why was he in college so early? It was a solace when Bidwell tiptoed in. After his morning greeting, he said: ‘So the great old day has arrived at last, sir.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He stood beside the bed with his deferential roguish smile.
‘I know it’s wrong of us to talk among ourselves, sir, but we’ve had a good many words about who is to be the next Master.’
‘Have you?’
‘They’re two very nice gentlemen,’ said Bidwell. ‘A very popular gentleman Dr Jago is. I shouldn’t say there was a servant in the college who had ever heard a word against him.’ He was watching me with sharp eyes out of his composed, deliberately bland and guileless face.
‘Of course,’ he said when I did not reply, ‘Dr Crawford is a very popular gentleman too.’ He hurried a little, determined not to be on the wrong side. ‘Between ourselves, sir, I should say they were equally popular. We shall drink their health all right, whoever you put in.’
I got up and shaved and put on my darkest suit. It was curious, I thought, how strongly ritual held one, even though one was not given to it. Out of the window, the court looked sombre in the bleak morning, and one of the last leaves of autumn had drifted on to the sill. Bidwell had switched on the light in my sitting-room, and for once the fire was blazing strongly in time for breakfast, though the air still struck cold.
I ate some breakfast without much appetite and read the morning paper: the news from the Spanish war seemed a little better. Roy ran up the stairs and walked about the room for a few moments.
‘Hurry up, old boy,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t miss the show.’
He was dressed with more than his usual elegance, and was wearing a black silk tie. When I asked him why, he said it was a sign of loss. He was less disturbed, more excited and far gayer than I was. He told me that he had met Chrystal in the court, and commiserated with him for being cursed with this temperamental indecision.
‘“It must be a grave handicap,” I said.’ Roy’s face became impassive. ‘“It must make active life an impossible strain,” I said.’
I grinned. ‘How did he take it?’
‘He looked rather puzzled.’
‘It wasn’t very wise.’
‘Just so,’ said Roy. ‘But it was remarkably pleasing.’
He left to send a telegram before he went into chapel: he was off to Italy next day.
I stood by the window, and set my watch by the clock across the court. It was just ten minutes to ten. The chapel door stood open, and the head porter, his top hat gleaming in the grey morning, was waiting to give the signal for the bell to peal. But he had not done so when, through th
e great gate, appeared old Gay. He was wearing mortar board and gown, as he always did when he came to college; he was wrapped up in a new, heavy coat and padded thick with scarves; his beard looked as though it had been cut that morning. Step by step, foot and a half by foot and a half, he progressed towards the chapel. Two under porters walked behind him; I thought he must have commanded them, for they seemed mystified and had nothing to do. Before he was halfway round the court, the bell began to ring. At the first sound, Gay looked up at the tower and gave an approving and olympian nod.
As the old man drew near, Brown emerged from the chapel door. His face glowed pink, and I guessed that he had been bustling about seeing that all was in order. Gay beckoned him, and he went along the path. Before they met, Gay called out a resounding good morning that I could hear even across the court and through my windows; when they came close enough, Gay enthusiastically shook hands.
At that moment, Chrystal and Despard-Smith were approaching from the second court, and Winslow came through the gate. The bell rang out insistently. It was time for me to go.
When I went into the chapel there was complete silence, though most of the college were already sitting there. A long table had been placed in the nave; it was covered with a thick rich crimson tablecloth I had never seen before; and there, with Gay at the head, Pilbrow on his right hand, Despard-Smith on his left, the others in order down its length, the fellows sat. The bell clanged outside: in each pause between the peals, there was complete silence. The chapel was solemn to some by faith; but others, who did not believe, who knew what the result of this morning must be, to whom it was just a form, were nevertheless gripped by the ritual magic.
The lights shone down on the red cloth. In the silence, one noticed more than ever the smell of the chapel – earthy, odorous from wood, wax, fusty books. Along with that smell, which never varied, came a new concomitant, a faint but persistent tincture of pomade. It must have been due, I thought, to old Gay’s barber.
The bell still clanged. Ten o’clock had not yet struck. There were three empty places at the table. One was on my left, where Luke had not yet come. There was another between Despard-Smith and Brown, and a third between Winslow and Chrystal. Then Jago walked in, slowly, not looking at any of us. He stared at the table, took in the empty places. He saw where his must be. He took the chair between Winslow and Chrystal. No words were spoken, he made no indication of a greeting: but Brown, opposite to him, gave a slight kind smile.
Luke came to his place, and we were still quiet. The bell gave its last peal: the chimes often were quivering above the chapel: Crawford moved, swiftly but without heat or fuss, to the last seat.
‘I apologize if I’m late, Senior Fellow,’ he said equably. They were the first words spoken since I went in.
The last stroke often had sounded, and there was no whisper in the chapel. Gay sat upright, looking down the table; Pilbrow and Despard-Smith faced each other: Winslow and Crawford: Jago and Brown: Chrystal and Nightingale: Getliffe and me: Roy Calvert and Luke. In front of each of us, on the crimson cloth, was a copy of the statutes, a slip of paper, and a pen. Down the middle of the table ran a series of four silver inkstands – one for Gay alone, one for each group of four.
Gay climbed to his feet.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I propose to carry out the duties conferred on me by our statutes.’ He began at once to read from his leather-covered copy. “At ten o’clock in the morning of the appointed day the Fellows shall assemble in the chapel, and of the fellows then present that one who is first in order of precedence shall preside. He shall first read aloud–”’ Gay looked up from the book. ‘This is the appointed day, there’s no doubt about that. And I am the fellow first in order of precedence. Now is the time to do my duty.’
In his strong and sonorous voice he read on. The words echoed in the chapel; everyone sat still while the seconds ticked past; I kept my eyes from Jago’s face. The quarter struck, and Gay was still reading.
At last he finished.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that’s well done. Now I call upon you to stand and make your declarations.’
Gay vigorously recited: ‘I, Maurice Harvey Laurence Gay, do hereby declare that I have full knowledge of the statutes just read and will solemnly observe them. I do also hereby declare that without thought of gain or loss or worldly considerations whatsoever I will now choose as Master that man who in my belief will best maintain and increase the well-being and glory of the college. I vow this in sincerity and truth.’
In the ordinary elections, of a scholar or a fellow, it was the practice for each of us to repeat in turn the seven words of the promise. But now we heard Eustace Pilbrow go through the whole declaration, and Despard-Smith after him.
Despard-Smith’s voice died away.
Winslow thrust out his underlip, and said: ‘I vow this in sincerity and truth.’
Despard-Smith immediately whispered in Gay’s ear. Gay said: ‘The senior fellows consider that everyone should read the whole declaration.’
‘Am I bound by the decision of the senior fellows?’ said Winslow.
‘We mustn’t leave anything to doubt. No indeed,’ said Gay. ‘I have to ask you to comply. Then everyone else, right down the line. That’s the proper way.’
‘I do it under protest, Senior Fellow,’ said Winslow sullenly, and read the declaration in a fast monotone.
When it came to Jago’s turn, I felt the strain tighten among us as we stood. His voice was muffled but controlled. When he ended his promise, he threw back his head. His shoulder was almost touching Chrystal’s.
The declarations passed across the table, came to the young men. At last Luke had completed his: we all stayed on our feet.
‘Is that everyone?’ said Gay. ‘I want to be assured that everyone has made his declaration according to the statutes. That’s well done again. Now we may sit down and write our votes.’
For some minutes – perhaps it was not so long – there was only the sound of the scratch of pens on paper. I noticed Chrystal, who was using his fountain pen, push towards Jago the inkstand that stood for them both to use. Someone higher up the table was crossing out a word. I finished and looked at Francis Getliffe, directly opposite: he gave me a grim smile. Several people were still staring down at their slips. Gay was writing away.
He was the last to look up. ‘Ah. All ready? Pray read over your votes,’ he said.
Then he called out: ‘I will now request the junior fellow to collect your votes and deliver them to me. I shall then read them aloud, as prescribed in the statutes. I request the two next senior fellows to make a record of the votes as I announce them. Yes, that’s the work for them to do.’
Pilbrow and Despard-Smith sat with paper in front of them. Young Luke walked down the nave, arranging the votes in order, so that they could be read from the juniors upwards.
‘Well done,’ said Gay, when Luke placed the little pile in his hand. ‘Well done.’
He waited until Luke was once more in his seat.
‘Now is the time to read the votes,’ Gay announced. Once more he clutched the table and got to his feet. He held the slips at arm’s length, in order to focus his faded, long-sighted eyes. He recited, in the clearest and most robust of tones: ‘Here they are.’
‘“I, Walter John Luke, vote for Dr Paul Jago.”
‘“I, Roy Clement Edward Calvert, elect Paul Jago.”
My vote for Jago. There was no fixed form of voting, though Roy’s was supposed to be the most correct. It struck me irrelevantly how one heard Christian names that one had scarcely known.
‘“I, Francis Ernest Getliffe, elect Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford.”
‘“Ronald Edmund Nightingale votes for Dr Crawford.”
‘“Charles Percy Chrystal elects Dr Thomas Crawford.”’
As Gay’s voice rang out with Chrystal’s vote, there was a quiver at the table. There may have been some, I thought, to whom it was a shock. Had the news reached everyone by ten o’clock?
‘“I, Arthur Brown, elect Paul Jago.”
I waited anxiously for the next.
‘“I, Paul Jago, elect Thomas Crawford.”
‘“Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford chooses Paul Jago.”
‘“Mr Winslow elects Dr Crawford, and signs his name as Godfrey Harold Winslow.”
‘“Albert Theophilus Despard-Smith elects Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford.”
‘“I, Eustace Pilbrow, elect Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford.”’
Someone said: ‘That’s a majority.’
There was still Gay’s own vote to come.
Gay read with doubled richness: ‘“I, Maurice Harvey Laurence Gay, Senior Fellow of the college and emeritus professor in the university, after having performed my duties as Senior Fellow in accordance with the statutes and heard the declarations of the fellows duly assembled in chapel, do hereby cast my vote for Paul Jago as Master of the college.”’
There was a movement, either of relaxation or surprise. I caught Roy Calvert’s eye.
‘There we are,’ said Gay. ‘There are the votes. Have you counted them?’
‘Yes,’ said Despard-Smith.
‘Mind you count them carefully,’ said Gay. ‘We mustn’t make a mistake at the last.’
‘Seven votes for Dr Crawford,’ said Despard-Smith bleakly, ‘Six for Dr Jago. Seven votes make a clear majority of the college, and Dr Crawford is elected.’
‘Ah. Indeed. Remarkable. Dr Crawford. I understand – You’re certain of your records, my dear chap?’
‘Certainly.’ Despard-Smith was frowning.
‘I think I must scrutinize them. I ought to make sure.’ Still standing, the old man held the list of votes two feet from his eyes, and checked each one beside the written slips.
‘I agree with you,’ he said genially to Despard-Smith. ‘Well done. Seven votes for Dr Crawford. I must declare him elected.’
For the last time, a hush fell in the chapel. Gay stood alone, smiling, serene and handsome.
