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 folded 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.”