“Well, gentlemen,” he said when they had filed into his study, “and what can I do for you now?”
The Dean shuffled forward. “We have reconsidered our decision. Master,” he said.
Behind him the members of the College Council nodded obediently. Sir Godber looked round their faces and was satisfied. “You wish me to remain as Master?”
“Yes, Master,” the Dean said.
“And this is the general wish of the Council?”
“It is.”
“And you accept the changes in the College that I have proposed without any reservations?” the Master asked.
The Dean mustered a smile. “Naturally, we have reservations,” he said. “It would be asking rather much to expect us to abandon our… er… principles without retaining the right to have private reservations, but in the interest of the College as a whole we accept that there may be a need for compromise.”
“My conditions are final,” said the Master. “They must be accepted as they stand. I am not prepared to attenuate them. I think I should make that plain.”
“Quite so. Master. Quite so.” The Dean smiled weakly.
“In that case I shall postpone my decision,” said Sir Godber, “until the next meeting of the College Council. That will give us all time to consider the matter at our leisure. Shall we say next Wednesday at the same time?”
“As you wish, Master,” said the Dean. “As you wish.”
They trooped out and Sir Godber, having seen them to the door, stood at the window watching the dark procession disappear into the winter evening with a new sense of satisfaction. “The iron fist in the iron glove,” he murmured to himself, conscious that for the first time in a long career of political manoeuvring and compromise he had at long last achieved a clear-cut victory over an apparently intransigent opposition. There had been no doubting the Fellows’ obeisance. They had crawled to him and Sir Godber indulged himself in the recollection before going on to consider the implications of their surrender. No one – and who should know better than Sir Godber – crawled quite so submissively without good reasons. The Fellows’ obeisance had been too complete to be without ulterior motive. It was not enough to suppose that his threat had been utter. It had been sufficient to force them to come to heel but there had been no need for the Dean, of all people, to wag his tail so obsequiously. Sir Godber sat down by the fire and considered the character of the Dean for a hint of his motive. And the more he thought the less cause he found for premature self-congratulation. Sir Godber did not underestimate the Dean. The man was an ignorant bigot, with all the persistence of bigotry and all the cunning of the ignorant. “Buying time,” he thought shrewdly, “but time for what?” It was an unpleasant notion. Not for the first time since his arrival at Porterhouse, Sir Godber felt uneasy, aware, if only subliminally, that the facile assumptions about human nature upon which his liberal ideals were founded were somehow threatened by a devious scholasticism whose origins were less rational and more obscure than he preferred to think. He got up and stared out into the night at the medieval buildings of the College silhouetted against the orange sky. It had begun to snow again and the wind had risen, blowing the snowflakes hither and thither in sudden ungovernable flurries. He pulled the curtains to shut out the sight of nature’s lack of symmetry and settled himself in his chair with his favourite author, Bentham.
At High Table the Fellows dined in moody silence. Even the Chef’s poached salmon failed to raise their spirits, dampened by the obduracy of the Master and the memory of their capitulation. Only the Dean remained undaunted, shovelling food into his mouth as if to fuel his determination and mouthing imprecations on Sir Godber simultaneously, his forehead greasy and his eyes bright with the cunning Sir Godber had recognized.
In the Combination Room, as they took their coffee, the Senior Tutor broached the topic of their next move. “It would appear that we have until Wednesday to circumvent the Master’s proposals,” he said, sipping brandy fastidiously.
“A relatively short time, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Short but enough,” said the Dean tersely.
“I must say I find your confidence a little surprising, Dean,” said the Bursar nervously.
The Dean looked at him with a sudden ferocity. “No more surprising than I find your lack of discretion. Bursar,” he snapped. “I hardly imagine that this unfortunate turn of events would have occurred without your disclosure of the financial state of the College.”
The Bursar reddened. “I was simply trying to point out to the Master that the changes he was proposing would place an intolerable strain on our resources,” he protested. “If my memory serves me right you were the first to suggest that the finances should be brought to his attention.”
“Certainly I suggested that. I didn’t however suggest that he should be made privy to the details of our admissions policy,” the Dean retorted.
“Gentlemen,” said the Senior Tutor, “the mistake has been made. Nothing is to be gained by post-mortem. We are faced by an urgent problem. It is not in our best interest to apportion blame for past mistakes. If it comes to that we are all culpable. Without the divisions that prevented the election of Dr Siblington as Master, we should have avoided the nomination of Sir Godber.”
The Dean finished his coffee. “There is some truth in that,” he admitted, “and a lesson to be learnt. We must remain united in the face of the Master. In the meantime I have already made a move. I have arranged a meeting with Sir Cathcart D’Eath for this evening. His car should be waiting for me now.” He rose to his feet and gathered his gown about him.
“May one inquire the purpose of this meeting?” the Praelector asked. The Dean looked down at the Bursar. “I should not like to think that our plans are likely to reach Sir Godber’s ears,” he said deliberately.
“I can assure you…” began the Bursar.
“I have requested this meeting because Sir Cathcart as you all know is President of the OPs. I think he should know what changes the Master proposes. Furthermore I think he should know the manner in which the Master has conducted himself in the matter. I fancy that there will be an extraordinary meeting of the Porterhouse Society next Tuesday to discuss the situation and I have high hopes that at that meeting a resolution will be passed censoring Sir Godber for the dictatorial attitude he has adopted in his dealings with the College Council and calling for his immediate resignation from the Mastership.”
“But, Dean, surely that is most unwise,” protested the Senior Tutor thoroughly alarmed. “If a motion of that sort is passed, the Master is bound to resign and to publish his confounded letter. I really don’t see what that is going to accomplish.”
The Bursar put down his coffee-cup with unwonted violence. “For God’s sake. Dean,” he said, “consider what you are doing.”
The Dean smiled grimly. “If Sir Godber can threaten us,” he said, “we can threaten him.”
“But the scandal, think of the scandal. It will involve us all,” muttered the Bursar desperately.
“It will also involve Sir Godber. That is precisely the point of the exercise. We shall get in first by demanding his resignation. The force of his letter to the PM will be dulled by the fact that the College authorities and the Porterhouse Society have both demanded his resignation on the grounds of incompetence and his letter to the press with its so-called disclosures will have the appearance of being the action of a slighted and bitter man. Besides I rather think you overestimate Sir Godber’s political courage. Faced with the ultimatum we shall present at the Council meeting on Wednesday I doubt if he will risk a further confrontation.”
“But if the call for his resignation has already been published…”
“It won’t have been. The motion will have been passed, I trust unanimously, but its publication will be dependent on Sir Godber’s attitude. If he persists in demanding the changes in the College, then we shall publish.”