The Light and the Dark Page 9

  “Seniores priores,” Winslow said, inclining his head to Despard-Smith.

  “Mr Despard-Smith?” said the Master.

  “Master,” Despard-Smith gazed down the table with impressive gloom, “I am afraid that I must impress upon the college the d-disastrous consequences of a risky election. The consequences may be worse than disastrous, they may be positively catastrophic. I must tell the college that my doubts about Mr Calvert are very far from being removed. With great respect, Master, I am compelled to say that nothing I have yet heard has even begun to remove my doubts. I need not tell the college that nothing would please me more than being able conscientiously to support Mr Calvert. But, as I am at present s-situated, I should be forsaking my duty if I did not raise my doubts at this critical juncture.”

  “We should all be grateful,” said the Master formally.

  “It is a thankless task,” said Despard-Smith, with sombre relish, “but I feel it is in the man’s own best interests. First of all, I am compelled to ask whether any of Mr Calvert’s sponsors can reassure me on this point: if he were to be elected, would he take his share of the” – Despard-Smith stuttered, and then produced one of his descents into solemn anti-climax – “the bread-and-butter work of the college? I cannot see Mr Calvert doing his honest share of the bread-and-butter work, and a college of this size cannot carry passengers.”

  “Perhaps I might answer that, Master?” said Arthur Brown, bland, vigilant, his tone conciliatory, stubbornly prepared to argue all through the night.

  The Master was glad to hear him.

  “Anyone who knows Mr Calvert,” said Brown roundly, “could feel no shadow of doubt about his willingness to undertake any duties the college put upon him. Put it another way: he would never let us down, whatever we asked him to do. But I must reply to Mr Despard-Smith that I myself, and I feel sure I am speaking for several fellows, would feel very dubious about the wisdom of our asking Mr Calvert to undertake these bread-and-butter duties. If he is as good at his research work as some of us are inclined to think he should not be encumbered with more pedestrian activities. We can always find willing horses among ourselves to carry out the more pedestrian activities. As for Mr Calvert, I should be inclined to say that I don’t expect a nightingale to crack nuts.”

  Despard-Smith shook his head. He went on: “Many of us have to sacrifice our own interests for the college. I do not see why this young man should be an exception. I am also compelled to ask a second question, to which I attach even more serious importance. Is Mr Calvert sound enough in character to measure up to his responsibilities? We demand from our fellows a high standard of character. It will be scandalous if we ever cease to. It will be the beginning of the end. Speaking from many years’ judgment of men, I cannot conceal grave doubts as to whether Mr Calvert’s character has developed sufficiently to come up to our high standard.”

  It was as open as the conventions allowed. All his life Despard-Smith had been used to damning people at this table by the solemn unspoken doubt. And the debate stayed at that level, full of anger, misunderstandings, personal imperialisms, often echoes of echoes that biased men for or against Roy, that made it urgent for them to vote him in or out that afternoon. For an instant, through my fret and anxiety, I thought this was how all humans judged each other. Lightweight, said one. Dilettante, said another (which I said was the least true comment I could imagine). Charming and modest, said one of the old men, who liked his looks. “At any rate, he’s not prosaic,” declared Jago, the Senior Tutor, the dramatic and brilliant, the most striking figure in the college. Chrystal, out of loyalty to Brown, did not discuss the incident at the feast, but said he intended to reserve judgment. Conceited and standoffish, said someone. Brown met all the opinions imperturbably, softened them when he could, gave a picture of Roy – quiet, devoted to his work, anxious to become a don in the old style. The Master’s politeness did not leave him, though it was strained as he heard some of the criticisms; he stayed quick and alert in the chair, and repressed all his sarcasms until the name of Luke came up.

  But, when it came, his sarcasm was unfortunate. After the exchange of opinions about Roy’s personality, it became clear that we could not lose that afternoon. There were twelve men present (one was still ill). Of the twelve, six had now declared themselves as immovably determined to vote for Roy in this election – the Master, Brown, Jago, myself and the two senior fellows. There were four votes against for certain, with Chrystal and Getliffe still on the fence. At this point, Winslow, who had so far only interposed a few rude comments, took over the opposition from Despard-Smith. He talked of the needs of the college, gibed at the Master by speaking contemptuously of the “somewhat exotic appeal of esoteric subjects”, and finished by saying that he would like Getliffe to “ventilate” the question of Luke. Brown greeted them both with the blandest of encouragement: it was always his tactic to be most reasonable and amiable when things were going well.

  In his taut crisp fashion Getliffe described Luke’s career in research. He was the son of a dockyard riveter – had won a scholarship from his secondary school, taken high firsts in his triposes (“there’s no difference between him and Calvert there,” said Francis), begun research in the Cavendish two years before. “He’s just finished that first bit of work,” said Francis Getliffe. “He’s said the last word on the subject.”

  “Isn’t that just the trouble with some of your scientific colleagues, Mr Getliffe?” said the Master in a cheerful whisper. “They’re always saying the last word, but they never seem to say the first.”

  There was laughter, but not from the scientists. Francis flushed. He was thin-skinned despite his strong will, and he was never self-forgetful on public occasions.

  I was violently angry, on edge, distressed. It was innocent, it carried no meaning except that the Master liked to feel the witticism on his tongue: it was incredible that after all his years of intimate affairs he could not resist a moment’s score. Francis would not forgive him.

  But Arthur Brown was on watch.

  “I think I should like it known, Master,” he said in his rich, deliberate, fat man’s voice, “that I for one, and I rather fancy several others, are very much interested in Mr Luke’s candidature. If it weren’t for what are in our judgment the absolutely overwhelming claims of Mr Calvert, it would seem to me very difficult not to vote for the other young man today. He hasn’t had the advantages that most of our undergraduates have, and I consider his performance is perfectly splendid. Unfortunately I do feel myself obliged to vote for Mr Calvert this evening, but if Mr Getliffe brings up the other name next term, I rather fancy we can promise him a very sympathetic hearing.”

  Brown gave Francis Getliffe, all down the length of the table, his broadest and most affable smile. After a moment, Francis’ cheeks creased with a good-natured grin. Brown was watching him with eyes that, behind the broad smile, did not miss the shadow of an expression: as soon as he saw Francis’ face relax, he spoke, still richly but very quick to get in first.

  “I don’t know,” said Brown, “how far Mr Getliffe intends to press us about Luke this afternoon – in all the circumstances and considering what has just been said?”

  Francis hesitated, and then said: “No, I won’t go any further. I take the strongest exception, Master, to any suggestion that Luke’s work is not original. It’s as original as any work can be. And I shall propose him at the first opportunity next year. I hope the college doesn’t let him slip. He’s quite first class. But I’m satisfied that Calvert has done distinguished work, and looks like going on with it. I’m ready to vote for him this afternoon.”

  There was a hum, a rustle, a shuffle of papers. I glanced at Winslow: he pulled in his mouth in a grimace that was twisted, self-depreciating, not unpleasant. Arthur Brown was writing with great care on a quarter sheet of paper, and did not look up: the Master gave Francis a fresh, intimate, lively smile, and said: “I withdraw completely. Don’t take it amiss.”

  Brown fol
ded up his note, and wrote a name on it. It was passed round to me. Inside it read, simply: WE MIGHT HAVE LOST.

  The straw vote followed soon after. There were seven votes for Roy, four against. Chrystal did not vote.

  Before we made the statutory promises and gave our formal votes in writing, Despard-Smith got in a bleak speech in which he regretted that he could not vote for Calvert even for the sake of a gesture of unanimity. Winslow said that, for his part, he was prepared to give anyone the satisfaction of meaningless concord. At last, Roy was formally elected by ten votes to two, Despard-Smith and another sticking it out to the last.

  The Master smiled. It was nearly seven o’clock, he was no more stale than when we began.

  “I should like to congratulate everyone,” he said with his brisk courtesy, “on having done a good day’s work for the college.”

  I went out of the room to send the butler in search of Roy. When I returned, the college was indefatigably considering the decoration of the hall, a subject which came on each list of agenda, roused the sharpest animosities, and was never settled. The old fellows took a more dominant part than in the election. Some of them had been arguing over college aesthetics for over fifty years, and they still disagreed with much acerbity. They were vigorously at it when the butler opened the door and announced that Mr Calvert was waiting. According to custom, the Master at once adjourned the meeting, and eyes turned towards the door.

  Roy came in, lightfooted, his head high. Under his gown, he was wearing a new dark grey suit. Everyone watched him. His face was pale and grave. No one’s eyes could leave him, neither his friends’ nor those who had been decrying him half an hour before. As they saw his face, did he seem, I thought, like someone strange, alien, from another species?

  He stood at the table, on the opposite side to the Master. The Master himself stood up, and said: “Mr Calvert, it is my pleasant duty to tell you that you have this day been elected into our society.”

  Roy inclined his head.

  “If it is agreeable to you,” the Master went on briskly, “I propose to admit you at once.”

  “Yes, Master.” They were Roy’s first words.

  “Then we will go into chapel this moment,” said the Master. “Those fellows who are free will perhaps follow us.”

  The Master and Roy walked together, both slender and upright, out of the combination room into the first court, dark in the November night. We followed them, two by two, along the wet shining path. We carried some wisps of fog in with us, as we passed through the chapel door, and a haze hung over the painted panels. We crowded into the fellows’ stalls, where few of us now attended, except for formal duties such as this – that night Winslow and Francis Getliffe, the doctrinaire unbelievers, did not come.

  Roy knelt in the Master’s stall, his palms together, the Master’s hands pressing his. The clear light voice could be heard all over the chapel, as he took the oath. The Master said the final words, and began shaking Roy’s hand. As we moved forward to congratulate him, Brown nudged me and whispered: “Now I really do believe that fate can’t touch us.”

  9: Birthday Celebration

  Lady Muriel gave an intimate dinner party in the Lodge: Arthur Brown presented three bottles on the night of the election, and some more in the week that followed: the Master went round, excelling himself in cheerful, familiar whispers: Bidwell greeted Roy with his sly, open, peasant smile, and said: “We’re all very glad about that, sir. Of course we knew something was going on. We like to keep our eye on things in our own way. I’m very glad myself, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  With all of them Roy pretended to be light-hearted: their pleasure would be spoilt unless he were himself delighted. He could not take joy away from those he liked. He even simulated cheerfulness with me, for he knew that I was pleased. But it was no good. The melancholy would not let him go. It was heavier than it had ever been.

  He thrashed round like an animal in a cage. He increased his hours of work. Bottles of brandy kept coming into his room, and he began drinking whenever he had to leave his manuscripts. There were evenings when he worked with a tumbler of spirits beside him on the upright desk.

  One night I found him in an overall, with pots of paint scattered on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Brightening things up,” he said. His mockery did not leave him for long, even in this state. “I need things bright round me. Otherwise I might get depressed.”

  For days he painted the room from the ceiling to the floor. In the end, the walls gleamed in pink, green and terracotta. The desks, once a shining white, he painted also, the platforms pink and the legs green. It picked out their strange shapes. From then on, the whole room was bright with colour, was covered with the vivid desks in their bizarre lines. It took visitors aback, when they called to inspect his manuscripts.

  I felt helpless and utterly useless, though he seemed to like having me with him. I feared, with a growing dread, the lightning flashes of elation. I told myself that perhaps this state would pass, and meanwhile tried to prevent him dining in hall or being seen much in the college. I did not want him to do himself harm there – and also I had the selfish and practical reason that I did not want him to do harm to myself or Arthur Brown. I dined with him in the town, we went to see friends in their colleges and houses, I persuaded him to spend several nights in his London flat. Rosalind, who had written to me often during the past eighteen months and who kept sending me presents, only needed a word by telephone: she followed him there, and for the first day or two gave him release – temporary, perhaps, thoughtless, certainly, not the release he himself looked for, but still release.

  It was, of course, noticed by the college that he had not dined often in hall since his election. But they concluded that he was indulging in a wild round of celebration. They minded very little; by the custom of their class, and of this particular academic society, they did not take much notice of drinking. They nodded in a matter-of-fact and cheerful way. The Master met him once in the court when his eyes were bright with drink, and said to me next day: “Roy Calvert seems to be going about with vineleaves in his hair. I suppose it’s only natural.”

  I wished it were as natural as that.

  I paid very little attention when Roy asked me to the meeting in honour of Lyall. It was on one of my usual evenings in London, during Roy’s stay. I had gone round from my house in Chelsea to his flat in Connaught Street, just behind the Bayswater Road. Rosalind let me in. She was busy trying the effect of some new boxes with bright, painted, porcelain lids.

  Roy had taken the flat while he was an undergraduate, but Rosalind was the only woman who had left her stamp on it. Soon after she first stayed there, she set about making it into something more ornate, lush, comfortable, and mondain.

  “How do you like them?” she said, viewing the boxes.

  “A bit boudoir-ish,” I said.

  “Oh dear.” Superficially she was easy to discourage. She and I got on very well in an unexacting fashion.

  “How is Roy?”

  “The old thing’s dressing. I don’t think there’s much the matter with him.”

  “Is he cheerful?”

  “He’s as cheerful as you bright people usually manage to be. I don’t take too much notice of his moods, Lewis. I’ve been keeping him in bed. There’s plenty of life in the old thing still,” she said with a dying fall. One of her uses to him, I thought suddenly, was that she treated him as though he were a perfectly ordinary man. She loved what to her meant romance, the pink lamp-shades in the restaurant car, the Italian sky, great restaurants, all the world of chic and style: at a distance Roy was romantic because he gave her those: in the flesh, though she loved him dearly, he was a man like other men, who had better be pampered though “there was not much wrong with him”.

  Roy entered in a dressing-gown, shaved and fresh.

  “You here?” he said to me in mock surprise. And to Rosalind: “What may you be doing, de
ar?”

  “Flirting with Lewis,” she said immediately.

  He smacked her lightly, and they discussed where they should go for dinner, so that he might know what clothes to wear. “We’re not taking you, old boy,” said Roy over her shoulder: he gave her just the choice that made her eyes rounder, Claridge’s, the Canton, Monseigneur’s. He seemed far less depressed than when I last saw him, and I was nothing but amused when he asked me to the Lyall celebration.

  “We shan’t take you tonight,” he said. “I’m simply jealous of you with Rosalind. But I’ll take you somewhere else on Thursday. You need to come and hear us honour old Lyall.”

  “Oulstone Lyall?”

  “Just so. I need you to come. You’ll find it funny. He’ll be remarkably stuffed.”

  I soon had reason to try to remember that invitation exactly, for I was compelled to learn this state of his right through; but I was almost certain that there was nothing dionysiac about him at all that evening, no lightning flash of unnatural gaiety. It was probable that his ease and pleasure with Rosalind made his spirits appear higher than they were. In reality, he was still borne down, though he could appear carefree as he entertained Rosalind or laughed at me.

  Sir Oulstone Lyall was seventy years of age that autumn, and scholars in all the oriental subjects had arranged this meeting as a compliment. It was arranged for the Thursday afternoon in the rooms of the British Academy. There were to be accounts of the contemporary position in various fields of scholarship – with the intention of bringing out, in a discreet and gentlemanly way, the effect and influence of Lyall’s own work. It was a custom borrowed from German scholars, and the oldfashioned did not like it. Nevertheless, most of the orientalists in the country came to the meeting.

  The Master travelled up from Cambridge that morning and lunched with Roy and me. Away from the Lodge, he was in his most lively form, and it was he who first made a light remark about Sir Oulstone.