“How did Lyall get there?” said Roy, in a piercing insistent tone.
“Between ourselves,” the Master replied, “I’ve always felt that he was rather an old humbug.”
“I’ve heard a story about Erzberger. Master, do you remember anything?” said Roy, with abnormal concentration.
The Master did remember. He was himself modest and humble, his professional life was blameless. But he was always ready to indulge in a detached, abstract and cheerful cynicism. He did not notice that Roy’s glance was preternaturally attentive and acute — or perhaps he was stimulated by it.
For the rest of our lunch until it was time to walk up to Piccadilly, he told Roy what he knew of Lyall and Erzberger. The Master had actually met Erzberger when they were both young men.
“He was an astonishingly ugly Jew. I thought he was rather pushful and aggressive. He once asked me — ‘What does an outsider like me have to do to get a fellowship?’” But, so we gathered from the Master, he was brilliantly clever, and had a rarer gift than cleverness, a profound sense of reality. He went to work with Lyall, and they published several papers together on the medieval trade routes in Central Asia. “It was generally thought that the real views were Erzberger’s.” Then there was an interval of several years, in which Erzberger told a good many people that he was preparing a major work. “He never believed in underrating himself.” He had never been healthy, and he died in his thirties of consumption. No unfinished work was ever published, but two years after his death Lyall produced his own magnum opus, the foundation of his fame, on the subject on which they had worked together. In the preface he acknowledged his gratitude to his lamented friend Erzberger for some fruitful suggestions, and regretted his untimely death.
“Just so,” said Roy. “Just so.”
It was a dark, foggy afternoon as we walked up Piccadilly. Cars’ headlights were making swathes in the mist, and Roy’s voice sounded more than ever clear as he talked to the Master all the way to Burlington House. He was intensely, brilliantly excited. A laugh kept ringing out. On the Master’s other side, I walked silent and apprehensive in the murk. Could I give him calm, could anyone? Was it sensible or wise to try now? I was tied by doubt and ignorance. I knew he was suffering, but I did not know how justified my apprehensions were.
As we took off our coats, and the Master left us for a moment, I made one attempt.
“Are you desperately anxious to attend this pantomime?” I said.
“Why do you ask?” said Roy sharply.
“There are other things which might amuse us—”
“Oh no,” said Roy. “I need to be here.” Then he smiled at me. “Don’t you stay. It was stupid of me to drag you here. You’re certain to be bored. Let’s meet later.”
I hesitated, and said: “No. I may as well come in.”
The Academy room was quite small and cosy; the lights were thrown back from the fog-darkened windows. There were half a dozen men on the dais, among them Lyall and Colonel Foulkes. The Master was placed among minor dignitaries in the front row beneath. Perhaps sixty or seventy men were sitting in the room, and it struck me that nearly all of them were old. Bald heads shone, white hair gleamed, under the lights. As the world grew more precarious, rich young men did not take to these eccentric subjects with such confidence: amateurs flourished most, as those old men had flourished, in a tranquil and secure age.
Roy found me a chair, and then suddenly went off by himself to sit under the window. My concern flared up: but in a moment the meeting began.
The chairman made a short speech, explaining that we had come to mark Sir Oulstone’s seventieth birthday and express our gratitude for his work. As the speech went on, Sir Oulstone’s head inclined slowly, weightily, with dignity and satisfaction, at each mention of his own name.
Then came three accounts of Central Asian studies. The first, given by an Oxford professor with a high, fluting voice, struck me as straightforward old-fashioned history — the various conquering races that had swept across the plateau, the rise and fall of dynasties, and so on. The second, by Foulkes, dealt with the deciphering of the linguistic records. Foulkes was a rapid, hopping, almost unintelligible speaker, and much of the content was technical and would have been, even if I could have heard what he said, unintelligible to me: yet one could feel that he was a master of his subject. He paid a gabbling, incoherent and enthusiastic compliment to Roy’s work on Soghdian.
The third account I found quite fascinating. It was delivered in broken English by a refugee, and it described how the history of Central Asia between 500 bc and ad 1000 had been studied by applying the methods of archaeology and not relying so much on documentary evidence — by measuring areas of towns at different periods, studying the tools men used and their industrial techniques. It was the history of common men in their workaday lives, and it made sense of some of the glittering, burbling, dynastic records. The pioneer work had been done over forty years before, said the speaker vigorously, in the original articles of Lyall and Erzberger: then the real great step forward had been taken by Lyall himself, in his famous and classical book.
There was steady clapping. Sir Oulstone inclined his head very slowly. The speaker bowed to him, and Sir Oulstone inclined his head again.
The speech came to an end. It had been a masterpiece of exposition, and the room stirred with applause. There followed a few perfunctory questions, more congratulations to Sir Oulstone from elderly scholars in the front row, one or two more questions. The meeting was warm with congratulation and self-congratulation, feet were just beginning to get restless, it was nearly time to go.
Then I heard Roy’s voice, very clear.
“Mr Chairman, may I ask a question?”
He was standing by the window, with vacant chairs round him. Light fell directly on his face, so that it looked smooth and young. He was smiling, his eyes were brilliant, shining with exaltation.
“Of course, Mr—”
“Calvert,” said Roy.
“Ah yes, Mr Calvert,” said the chairman. Sir Oulstone smiled and bowed.
“We’ve listened to this conspectus of Asian social history,” said Roy precisely. “I should like to ask — how much credit for the present position should be given to the late Dr Erzberger?”
No one seemed to feel danger. The chairman smiled at the lecturer, who replied that Erzberger deserved every credit for his share in the original publications.
“Thank you,” said Roy. “But it does not quite meet my point. This subject has made great progress. Is it possible for no one to say how much we need to thank Dr Erzberger for?”
The chairman looked puzzled. There was a tension growing in the room. But Sir Oulstone felt nothing of it as he rose heavily and said: “Perhaps I can help Mr Calvert, sir.”
“Thank you,” said the chairman.
“Thank you, Sir Oulstone,” came Roy’s voice, clear, resounding with sheer elation.
“I am grateful to my young friend, Mr Calvert,” said Sir Oulstone, suspecting nothing, “for bringing up the name of my old and respected collaborator. It is altogether appropriate that on this occasion when you are praising me beyond my deserts, my old helper should not be forgotten. Some of you will remember, though it was well before Mr Calvert’s time,” Sir Oulstone smiled, “that poor Erzberger, after helping me in my first efforts, was cut off in his prime. That was a tragedy for our subject. It can be said of him, as Newton said of Cotes, that if he had lived we should have learned something.”
“Just so,” said Roy. “So he published nothing except the articles with you, Sir Oulstone?”
“I am afraid that is the fact.”
Roy said, quietly, with extreme sharpness: “Could you tell us what he was working on before he died?”