He became a greater favourite with Lady Muriel as the months passed, was more often at the Lodge, and had spent a weekend at Boscastle.
He knew this roused some rancour in the college, and I told him that it was not improving his chances of election. He grinned. Even if he had not been amused by Lady Muriel and fond of her, the thought of solemn head-shaking would have driven him into her company.
Yet he wanted to be elected. He was not anxious about it, for anxiety in the ordinary sense he scarcely knew: any excitement, anything at stake, merely gave him a heightened sense of living. At times, though, he seemed curiously excited when his fortunes in this election rose or fell. It surprised me, for he lacked his proper share of vanity. Perhaps he wanted the status, I thought, if only to gratify his father: perhaps he wanted, like other rich men, to feel that he could earn a living.
At any rate, it mattered to him, and so I was relieved when Arthur Brown took control. The first I heard of the new manoeuvres was when Brown invited me to his rooms on a January evening. It was wet and cold, and I was sitting huddled by my fire when Brown looked in.
“I suppose,” he said, “that you don’t by any chance feel like joining me in a glass of wine? I might be able to find something a bit special. I can’t help feeling that it would be rather cheering on a night like this.”
I went across to his rooms, which were on the next staircase. Though he lived in domestic comfort with his wife and family, those rooms in college were always warm, always welcoming: that night a fire was blazing in the open grate, electric fires were glowing in the corners of the room, rich curtains were drawn, the armchairs were wide and deep. The fire crackled, and on the windows behind the curtains sounded the tap of rain. Brown brought out glasses and a bottle.
“I hope you like marsala on a cold night,” he said. “I’m rather given to it myself as a change. I find it rather fortifying.”
He was a broad plump well-covered man, with a broad smooth pink face. He wore spectacles, and behind them his eyes were small, acute, dark, watchful and very bright. He was the junior of the two tutors, a man of forty-four, though most of the college, lulled by his avuncular kindness, thought of him as older.
He was a man easy to under-estimate, and his colleagues often did so. He was hospitable, comfort-loving, modestly self-indulgent. He disliked quarrels, and was happy when he could compose one among his colleagues. But he was also a born politician. He loved getting his own way, “running things”, manipulating people, particularly if they never knew.
He was content to leave the appearance of power to others. Some of us, who had benefited through his skill, called him “Uncle Arthur”: “the worthy Brown,” said Winslow contemptuously. Brown did not mind. In his own way, deliberate, never moving a step faster than he wanted, talking blandly, comfortably, and often sententiously, he set about his aims. He was by far the ablest manager among the Master’s party. He was a cunning and realistic, as well as a very warm-hearted, man. And in the long run, deep below the good fellowship, he possessed great obstinacy and fortitude.
We drank our wine, seated opposite each other across the fireplace.
“It is rather consoling, don’t you think?” said Brown amiably, as he took a sip. He went on to talk about some pupils, for most of the young men I supervised came into his tutorial side.
He was watching me with his intent, shrewd eyes and quite casually, as though it were part of the previous conversation, he slipped in the question: “You see something of our young friend Calvert, don’t you? I suppose you don’t feel that perhaps we ought to push ahead a bit with getting him considered?”
I said that I did.
Brown shook his head.
“It’s no use trying to rush things, Eliot. You can’t take these places by storm. I expect you’re inclined to think that it could have been better handled. I’m not prepared to go as far as that. The Master’s in a very difficult situation, running a candidate in what people regard as his own subject. No, I don’t think we should be right to feel impatient.” He gave a jovial smile. “But I think we should be perfectly justified, and we can’t do any harm, if we push a little from our side.”
“I’m ready to do anything,” I said. “But I’m so relatively new to the college, I didn’t think it was wise to take much part.”
“That shows very good judgment,” said Brown approvingly. “Put it another way: it’ll be a year or two before you’ll carry as much weight here as some of us would like. But I believe you can dig in an oar about Calvert, if we set about it in the right way. Mind you, we’ve got to feel our steps. It may be prudent to draw back before we’ve gone too far.”
Brown filled our glasses again.
“I’m inclined to think, Eliot,” he went on, “that our young friend could have been elected last term if there weren’t some rather unfortunate personal considerations in the background. He’s done quite enough to satisfy anyone, even if they don’t believe he’s as good as the Master says. They’d have taken him if they’d wanted to, but somehow or other they don’t like the idea. There’s a good deal of personal animosity somehow. These things shouldn’t happen, of course, but men are as God made them.”
“Some of them dislike the Master, of course,” I said.
“I’m afraid that’s so,” said Brown. “And some of them dislike what they’ve heard of our young friend Calvert.”
“Yes.”
“Has that come your way?” His glance was very sharp.
“A little.”
“It would probably be more likely to come to me. Why, Chrystal—” (the Dean, usually Brown’s inseparable comrade in college politics) — isn’t completely happy about what he hears. Of course,” said Brown steadily, “Calvert doesn’t make things too easy for his friends. But once again men are as God made them, and it would be a damned scandal if the college didn’t take him. I’m a mild man, but I should feel inclined to speak out.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“I’ve been turning it over in my mind,” said Brown. “I can’t help feeling this might be an occasion to take the bull by the horns. It occurs to me that some of our friends won’t be very easy about their reasons for trying to keeping him out. It might be useful to force them into the open. I have known that kind of method take the edge off certain persons’ opposition in a very surprising way. And I think you can be very useful there. You’re not so committed to the Master’s personal way of looking at things as some of us are supposed to be — and also you know Getliffe better than any of us.”
Under his stately, unhurried deliberations Brown had been getting down to detail — as he would say himself, he had been “counting heads”.
“I suggest those might be our tactics for the time being,” said Brown. “We can wait for a convenient night, when some of the others who don’t see eye to eye with us are dining. Then we’ll have a bottle of wine and see just how unreasonable they’re prepared to be. We shall have to be careful about tackling them. I think it would be safer if you let me make the pace.”
Brown smiled: “I fancy there’s a decent chance we shall get the young man in, Eliot.” Then he warned me, as was his habit at the faintest sign of optimism: “Mind you, I shan’t feel justified in cheering until we hear the Master reading out the statute of admission.”
Brown studied the dining list each day, but had to wait, with imperturbable patience, some weeks before the right set of people were dining. At last the names turned up — Despard-Smith, Winslow, Getliffe, and no others. Brown put himself down to dine, and told the kitchen that I should be doing the same.