It was as near a quarrel as we had had. After I left him, I wrote him a letter saying that he was making a mistake, and that I wouldn’t talk to Brodzinski. Feeling superstitious, I went over to the window and then returned to my desk and tore the letter up.
After the next meeting of the scientists, a few days before Christmas, I took my chance to get Brodzinski alone. Walter Luke had walked away with Francis Getliffe and Astill; Pearson was going off, as he did phlegmatically each fortnight, to catch the evening plane to Washington. So I could ask Brodzinski to come across with me to the Athenaeum, and we walked along the edge of the pond in the shivery winter dark. A steam of mist hung over the black water. Just after I heard the scurry, glug and pop of a bird diving, I said: ‘How do you think it is going?’
‘What is going?’ In his deep, chest-throbbing voice, Brodzinski as usual addressed me in style.
‘How do you think the committee is going?’
‘Let me ask you one question. Why did those three’ (he meant Luke, Getliffe, Astill) ‘go away together?’
He was almost whispering in the empty park. His face was turned to mimic, his great eyes luminous with suspicion. ‘They went away,’ he answered himself, ‘to continue drafting without me being there to intervene.’ It was more than likely. If it had not been likely, he would still have imagined it.
‘Do you think that I am happy about the committee—?’ Once more, the bass, unyielding courtesy.
We walked in silence. It was not a good start. In the club, I took him upstairs to the big drawing-room. There, on the reading desk, was the Candidates’ Book. I thought it might mollify him to pass by. His name was entered: we had all signed our names in support, Francis, Luke, Astill, Osbaldiston, Hector Rose, the whole lot of us. Somehow everyone knew that he craved to be a member, that he was passionately set on it. We were doing our best. Not merely to soften him, to keep him quiet: but in part, I thought, for an entirely different reason. Despite his force of character, despite his paranoia, there was something pathetic about him.
No, not despite his paranoia, but because of it. Paranoia had a hypnotic effect, even on tough and experienced men. I had come across a first intimation of this earlier in my life, in the temperament of my earliest benefactor, George Passant. It was not entirely, or even mainly, his generosity, his great balloon-like dreams, that drew the young: it was not the scale of his character or his formidable passions. It was that, in his fits of suspicion, of feeling done down and persecuted, he was naked to the world. He called for, and got, sympathy in the way most of us could never do. We might behave better: we might need help out of proportion more: we might even be genuinely pathetic. And yet, by the side of the George Passants, we could never suggest to those round us that revelation, that insight into pathos, which came from seeming innocent, uncorrupt, and without defence.
It was like that with Brodzinski. I had told Roger that Brodzinski was a dangerous man: that was a workaday comment, the sort of warning I could keep in the front of my mind. Sitting by him at the end of the Athenaeum drawing-room, watching his eyes stray to the Candidates’ Book, I wasn’t thinking about warnings: I could feel how once more he was exposed to the brilliance of suspicion, this naked sense of a group of privileged persons, whom he wanted above all to belong to, conspiring together to push him out. One’s impulse, even mine, was to make it easier. He ought to be shown that there were no plots against him; one ought to lend a hand. I found myself hoping that the Committee would elect him out of turn.
When I offered him a drink, he asked for half a glass of sherry and sipped at it, looking doubtfully at me while I put down a whisky. For a man so massive and virile, he was curiously old-maidish in some of his habits — or perhaps it was that he expected to find in all Anglo-Saxons the signs of incipient alcoholism. I said: ‘The Minister is extremely grateful for all you’ve done on his committee. You know how grateful he is, don’t you?’
‘He is a fine man,’ said Brodzinski, with deep feeling.
‘I am sure,’ I went on, ‘that before long the Government will want to give you some recognition.’
I knew that it was being arranged for him to get a CBE in the June Honours List. I had settled with Roger that I should hint at this.
Brodzinski stared at me with lambent eyes. He understood some of Whitehall politics much better than most Englishmen: but on these matters of honorific etiquette, he was mystified. He could not have guessed where Roger or Douglas Osbaldiston, or anyone else, came in. On the other hand, he gave a very English reply.
‘It doesn’t matter whether I get recognized. All that matters is that we do the right thing.’
‘The Minister is extremely grateful for the advice you have given. I know he’ll want to tell you so himself.’
Brodzinski sat back in the leather-covered chair, his great chest protruding like a singer’s. His face, wide and shield-shaped, was hard with thought, the flap of dusty hair fell to his eyebrows. He was still preoccupied, I guessed, with the thought of drafting going on without him. Yet he was happy. Roger he had spoken of as a trusted, powerful friend. He was sitting with me as though I were another friend, lesser, but still powerful.
‘It will soon be time,’ he said, ‘for the Minister to assert himself.’
I was having to feel my way.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘what any Minister can do on his own is pretty limited.’
‘I am afraid I do not understand you.’
‘I mean,’ I said, ‘you mustn’t expect miracles. He’s a very able man, as I’m sure you realized a long time ago, and he’s prepared to do things that most Ministers wouldn’t. But, you know, he can’t do much without the support of his colleagues at all levels. He can only do what a great many people think ought to be done — not just himself.’
There was a rim of white all round his irises. His gaze was fixed on me, and stayed so. He said:‘I still do not understand you—’ Once more he addressed me in full. ‘Or, at least I hope I do not understand you.’
‘I am saying that the area of freedom of action for a Minister is smaller, a great deal smaller, than most people can ever understand.’
‘I can see that could be so.’ He seemed exaggeratedly reasonable, and once more he was optimistic. ‘But let us come to practical examples. There are questions — we have been trying to discuss them this afternoon — where there is not unanimity of opinion. There cannot be unanimity of opinion. There will be differences, with some scientists taking Getliffe’s view, and some scientists taking mine. Am I correct?’
‘There hasn’t been unanimity so far, has there?’ I was trying the effect of sarcasm, but he went on, set-faced, as though we were already agreed:
‘Well then, in such circumstances, the Minister can use his authority on one side or the other: am I correct again?’
‘In some circumstances,’ I replied ‘he could.’
‘In these circumstances, then?’ He was throwing in all the weight of his nature, bearing me down. Yet his expression looked as though all was simple, as though difficulties did not exist, and his friends, including me, would give him what he longed for: as though disappointment did not exist on this earth.
I was searching for the words. At last I said: ‘I don’t think you must count on it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been trying to explain, the Minister is bound to listen to his advisers. You’ve been giving him one kind of advice. But — you know this don’t you? — the overwhelming majority of opinion is dead against you. The Minister can’t say that the pros and cons are about equal, and then just decide.’