The Masters (6 page)

‘That wasn’t the present Master,’ said Brown patiently. ‘I mean Royce.’

‘Indeed. Royce. You didn’t make that clear,’ Gay reproved him. ‘He’s surely a very young man. We only elected him recently. So he’s going, is he? Ah well, it will be a sad break with the past.’

He showed the triumph of the very old, when they hear of the death of a younger man. He felt half his age. Suddenly he noticed Roy Calvert, and his memory cleared.

‘Ah. Do I see Calvert? Haven’t you been deserting us?’

‘I got back to England this morning.’

‘Let me see. Let me see. Haven’t you been in Germany?’

‘Yes,’ said Roy Calvert.

‘I hadn’t forgotten you,’ said Gay victoriously. ‘And where in Germany, may I ask?’

‘Berlin.’

‘Ah. Berlin. A fine city. A fine university. I was once given an honorary degree of the university of Berlin. I remember it to this day. I remember being met at the Zoo station by one of their scholars – fine scholars they have in that country – and his first words were: “Professor M H L Gay, I think. The great authority on the sagas.” Ah. What do you think of that, Calvert? What do you think of that, Brown? The great authority on the sagas. They were absolutely the first words I heard when I arrived at the station. I had to demur to the word “great” of course.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘I said: “You can call me the authority on the sagas, if you like. The authority, without the great”.’

Brown and Chrystal chuckled. On Chrystal’s left, Nightingale looked polite but strained. Roy Calvert’s eyes shone: solemn and self-important persons were usually fair game to him, but Gay was too old. And his gusto was hard to resist.

‘That reminds me,’ Gay went on, ‘about honorary degrees. Do you know that I’ve now absolutely collected fourteen of them? What do you think of that, Calvert? What do you think of that, Chrystal?’

‘I call it pretty good,’ said Chrystal, smiling but impressed.

‘Fourteen honorary degrees. Not bad, eh? From every civilized country except France. The French have never been willing to recognize merit outside their own country. Still, fourteen isn’t so bad. And there’s still time for one or two more.’

‘I should think there is,’ said Chrystal. ‘I should think there is. And I shall want to present a bottle in honour of every one of them, Gay.’

Gay said the final grace in a ringing voice, and led us slowly back to the room. On the table, a bottle of port was ready for him; though the rest of us preferred claret, it was a rule that the college should drink port on any night when he came in to dine. As Chrystal helped him off with his overcoat, Gay’s eye glittered at the sight of walnuts in a silver dish.

‘Ah. Nuts and wine,’ he said. ‘Splendid. Nuts and wine. Is the Steward here? Congratulate him for me.’

He rolled the port on his tongue and cracked nut after nut. His teeth were as sound as in youth, and he concentrated vigorously on his pleasure. Then he wiped his lips and said: ‘That reminds me. Are any of us publishing a book this year?’

‘I may be,’ said Roy. ‘If they can finish cutting the type for–’

‘I congratulate you,’ said Gay. ‘I congratulate you. I have a little work of my own coming out in the summer. I should not absolutely rank it among my major productions, but I’m quite pleased with it as a tour de force. I shall be interested to see the reception it obtains. I sometimes think one doesn’t receive such a fair hearing when one is getting on in years.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought you need worry,’ said Brown.

‘I like to insist on a fair hearing,’ Gay said. ‘I’m not vain, I don’t mind what they say against me, but I like to be absolutely assured that they’re being fair. That’s all I’ve asked for all along, ever since my first book.

‘Ah. My first book.’ He looked down the table. His eyes had been a bright china blue, but were fading now. ‘That was a great occasion, to be sure. When the Press told me the book was out, I went round to the bookshops to see for myself. Then I walked out to Grantchester to visit my brother-in-law Dr Ernest Fazackerley – my wife was his youngest sister, you know. And when I told him the great news, do you know that cat of his – ah, that was a cat and a half – he put up his two paws, and I could imagine for all the world that he was applauding me.’

In a few minutes the butler brought a message that the Professor’s taxi was waiting at the porter’s lodge. This was part of the ritual each Thursday and Sunday night, for on those nights, in any weather, he left his house in the Madingley Road, and was driven down to the college for dinner. There was more of the ritual to come: Chrystal helped him into his overcoat again, he replaced his gown on top of it, and said goodnight to each of us one by one. Goodnights kept coming back to us in his sonorous voice, as he shuffled out of the room, with Roy Calvert to help him over the frozen snow.

‘Those old chaps were different from us,’ said Chrystal, after they had gone. ‘We shan’t do as much as that generation did.’

‘I’m not quite convinced that they were so wonderful,’ said Nightingale. There was a curious carefulness about his manner, as though he were concealing some pain in order not to embarrass the party. About his face also there was a set expression: he seemed to be disciplining himself to behave well. His lips were not often relaxed, and lines of strain etched the fine skin. He had a mane of fair wavy hair, brushed across his brow. His face was drawn, but not weak, and when he was pleased there was charm in his looks.

‘No one has ever explained to me,’ said Nightingale, ‘what there is original about Gay’s work.’

‘I’ll take you up on that, Nightingale,’ Chrystal said. ‘He’s better known outside the college than anyone we’ve got. It will be time enough for us to talk when we’ve done as much.’

‘I agree,’ said Brown.

‘If anyone sat down to his sagas for four hours a day for sixty years, I should have thought they were bound to get somewhere,’ said Nightingale.

‘I wish I could feel sure there is one man among us,’ Chrystal retorted, ‘who’ll have as much to his credit – if he lives to be Gay’s age.’

‘From what the German professors have written,’ Brown put in, ‘I don’t think there’s any reasonable doubt that Calvert will make as big a name before he’s done.’

Nightingale looked more strained. ‘These gentlemen are lucky in their subjects,’ he said. ‘It must be very nice not to need an original idea.’

‘You don’t know anything about their subjects,’ said Chrystal. He said it sharply but amicably enough, for he had a hidden liking for Nightingale. Another thought was, however, troubling him. ‘I don’t like to hear old Gay criticized. I’ve got as great a respect for him as anyone in the college. But it is lamentable to think that we shall soon have to elect a Master, and the old chap will have his vote. How can you expect a college to do its business, when you’ve got people who have lost their memories but are only too willing to take a hand?’

‘I’ve always thought they should be disfranchised,’ said Nightingale.

‘No,’ said Brown. ‘If we cut them off at sixty-five or seventy, and didn’t let them vote after that, we should lose more than we gained.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think I mean this: a college is a society of men, and we have to take the rough with the smooth.’

‘If you try to make it too efficient,’ I said, ‘you’ll suddenly find that you haven’t a college at all.’

‘I thought you were a man of advanced opinions,’ said Nightingale.

‘Sometimes I am,’ I said.

‘I don’t know where I come down,’ said Chrystal. He was torn, torn as he often was, torn as he would have hated anyone to perceive. His passion to domineer, his taste for clean efficiency, all his impulses as a party boss with the college to run, made him want to sweep the old men ruthlessly away – take away their votes, there would be so much less dead wood, they impeded all he wanted to do. Yet there was the other side, the soft romantic heart which felt Gay as larger than life-size, which was full of pious regard for the old, which shrank from reminding them that they were spent. ‘But I don’t mind telling you that there are times when I consider the college isn’t a fit body to be entrusted with its money. Do you really mean to tell me that the college is fit to handle a capital endowment of a million pounds?’

‘I’ll give you an answer,’ said Brown cheerfully, ‘when I see how we manage about electing a Master.’

‘Is anything being done about that?’ Nightingale asked.

‘Nothing can be done yet, of course,’ said Brown. ‘I suppose people are beginning to mention names. I’ve heard one or two already.’ As he talked blandly on, he was watching Nightingale. He was usually an opponent, he was likely to be so now, and Brown was feeling his way. ‘I think that Winslow may rather fancy the idea of Crawford. I wonder how you’d regard him?’

There was a pause.

‘I’m not specially enthusiastic,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m interested to hear you say that,’ said Brown. His eyes were bright. ‘I thought it would be natural if you went for someone like Crawford on the scientific side.’

Suddenly Nightingale’s careful manner broke.

‘I might if it weren’t Crawford,’ he said. His voice was bitter: ‘There’s not been a day pass in the last three years when he hasn’t reminded me that he is a Fellow of the Royal, and that I am not.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Brown consolingly. ‘He’s got a good many years’ start, hasn’t he?’

‘He reminds me that I’ve been up for election six times, and this year is my seventh.’

Nightingale’s voice was harsh with envy, with sheer pain. Chrystal left all the talk to Brown.

‘Well, I might as well say that at present I don’t feel much like going for Crawford myself,’ said Brown. ‘I’m beginning to doubt whether he’s really the right man. I haven’t thought much about it so far, but I have heard one or two people speak strongly for someone else. How do you regard the idea of Jago?’

‘Jago. I’ve got nothing against him,’ said Nightingale.

‘People will feel there are certain objections,’ Brown reflected.

‘Some people will object to anyone.’

Brown smiled.

‘They’ll say that Jago isn’t so distinguished academically as – for instance, Crawford. And that’s a valid point. The only consideration is just how much weight you give to it. Put it another way – we’re unlikely to get everything we want in one man. Do you prefer Jago, who’s respectable on the academic side but not a flyer – but who seems admirably equipped in every other way? Or do you prefer Crawford, who’s got other limitations that you’ve made me realize very clearly? Wouldn’t those limitations be unfortunate in a Master?’

‘I’m ready to support Jago,’ said Nightingale.

‘I should sleep on it if I were you,’ said Brown. ‘But I value your opinion–’

‘So do I,’ said Chrystal. ‘It’ll help me form my own.’

He and Brown went off together, and Nightingale and I were left alone.

‘Come up to my rooms,’ said Nightingale.

I was surprised. He was the one man in the college whom I actively disliked, and he disliked me at least as strongly. There was no reason for it; we had not one value or thought in common, but that was true with others whom I warmly liked; this was just an antipathy as specific as love. Anywhere but in the college we should have avoided each other. As it was, we met most nights at dinner, talked across the table, even spent, by the force of social custom, a little time together. It was one of the odd features of a college, I sometimes thought, that one lived in social intimacy with men one disliked: and, more than that, there were times when a fraction of one’s future lay in their hands. For these societies were always making elections from their own members, they filled all their jobs from among themselves, and in those elections one’s enemies took part – for example, Jago disliked Winslow far more intensely than I Nightingale, and at that moment he knew that, until the election was over, he was partially in Winslow’s power.

We climbed a staircase in the third court to Nightingale’s rooms. He was a teetotaller, the only one in the college, and he had no drink to offer, but he gave me a cigarette. He asked a few uninterested questions about my holidays. But though he tried, he could not keep to his polite behaviour. Suddenly he broke out: ‘What are Chrystal and Brown up to about the Mastership?’

‘I thought Brown had been telling us – at some length.’

‘I know all about that. What I want to hear is, has one of those two got his eye on it for himself?’

‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute,’ I said.

‘We’re not going to be rushed into that, are we?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them to try.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. He was irritating me. ‘They made it clear enough – they’ll run Jago.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it. I’ve never noticed them exert themselves much for anyone else. I’ve not forgotten how they squeezed Brown into the tutorship. I was two or three years junior, but there’s no doubt I had the better claim.’

Suddenly he snapped out the question: ‘What are you going to do?’

I did not reply at once.

‘Are you going to propose Chrystal as a bright idea at the last moment?’

He was intensely suspicious, certain that there was a web of plans from which he would lose and others gain. If I had told him I, too, was thinking of Jago, he would have seen meanings behind that choice, and it might have turned him from Jago himself. As it was, Jago’s seemed the one name that did not arouse his suspicion and envy that night.

I looked round his sitting-room. It was without feature, it was the room of a man concentrated into himself, so that he had nothing to spend outside; it showed nothing of the rich, solid comfort which Brown had given to his, or the eccentric picturesqueness of Roy Calvert’s. Nightingale was a man drawn into himself. Suspicion and envy lived in him. They always would have done, however life had treated him; they were part of his nature. But he had been unlucky, he had been frustrated in his most cherished hope, and now envy never left him alone.

He was forty-three, and a bachelor. Why he had not married, I did not know: there was nothing unmasculine about him. That was not, however, his abiding disappointment. He had once possessed great promise. He had known what it was to hold creative dreams: and they had not come off. That was his bitterness. As a very young man he had shown a spark of real talent. He was one of the earliest theoretical chemists. By twenty-three he had written two good papers on molecular structure. He had, so I was told, anticipated Heitler-London and the orbital theory; he was ten years ahead of his time. The college had elected him, everything seemed easy. But the spark burnt out. The years passed. Often he had new conceptions; but the power to execute them had escaped from him.