‘It is a relief, you know,’ he said. ‘I’d imagined this might be something with an unpleasant end. I may have told you that I don’t think much of doctors — but I distinctly enjoyed their conversation last night.’
He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I feel a little more tired than you’d imagine. But I take it that’s natural, after those people have been rummaging about. And I suppose this ulcer has been tiring me and taking away my appetite. I’ve got to lie here while it heals. I expect to get a little stronger every day.’
‘You may get some intermissions.’ From my chair I could see over the high bed rail, out of the single window; from the bed there was no view but the cloudless sky, but I could see most of the court under snow. My eyes stayed there. ‘You mustn’t worry too much if you have setbacks.’
‘I shan’t worry for a long time,’ he said. ‘You know, when I was nervous about the end of this, I was surprised to find how inquisitive one is. I did so much want to know whether the college would ever make up its mind about the beehives in the garden. And I did want to know whether our old friend Gay’s son would really get the job at Edinburgh. It will be remarkable if he does. It will reflect the greatest credit on Mrs Gay. Between you and me’ — he passed into his familiar, intimate whisper — ‘it’s an error to think that eminent scholars are very likely to be clever men.’
He chuckled boyishly. ‘I shouldn’t have liked not to know the answers. And I shouldn’t have liked not to finish that little book on the early heresies.’
The Master had spent much of his life working on comparative religion. Oddly, it seemed to have made not the slightest difference to his faith, which had stayed unchanged, as it were in a separate compartment, since he first learned it as a child.
‘How long will it take you?’
‘Only a couple of years. I shall ask Roy Calvert to write some of the chapters.’
He chuckled again. ‘And I should have hated not to see that young man’s magnum opus come out next year. Do you remember the trouble we had to get him elected, Eliot? Some of our friends show a singular instinct for preferring mediocrity. Like elects like, of course. Or, between you and me,’ he whispered, ‘dull men elect dull men. I’m looking forward to Roy Calvert’s book. Since the Germans dined here, our friends have an uncomfortable suspicion that he’s out of the ordinary. But when his book appears, they will be told that he’s the most remarkable scholar this society has contained for fifty years. Will they be grateful to you and me and good old Arthur Brown for backing him. Will they be grateful, Eliot?’
His laugh was mischievous, but his voice was becoming weaker.
As I got up to go, he said: ‘I hope you’ll stay longer next time. I told you, I expect to get a little stronger every day.’
After I had said goodbye to Lady Muriel and Joan, I let myself out of the Lodge into the sunny winter morning. I felt worn out.
In the court I saw Chrystal coming towards me. He was a very big man, both tall and strongly muscled. He walked soft-footed and well-balanced.
‘So you’ve seen him this morning?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What do you think of it?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry myself,’ said Chrystal. He was crisp and brusque, and people often thought him hectoring. This morning he was at his sharpest. From his face alone one would have known that he found it easy to give orders. His nose was beak-like, his gaze did not flicker.
‘I’m sorry myself,’ he repeated. I knew that he was moved. ‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I shall have to do the same.’ He looked at me with his commanding stare.
‘He’s very tired,’ I said.
‘I shouldn’t think of staying.’
We walked a few steps back towards the Lodge. Chrystal burst out: ‘It’s lamentable. Well, we shall have to find a successor, I suppose. I can’t imagine anyone succeeding Royce. Still, we’ve got to have someone. Jago came to see me this morning.’
He gave me a sharp glance. Then he said fiercely: ‘It’s lamentable. Well, it’s no use our standing here.’
I did not mind his rudeness. For, of all the college, he was the one most affected by the news of the Master. It was not that he was an intimate friend; in the past year, apart from the formal dinners at the Lodge, they had not once been in each other’s houses; it was a long time, back in the days when Chrystal was Royce’s pupil, since they spent an evening together. But Chrystal had hero-worshipped the older man in those days, and still did. It was strange to feel, but this bustling, dominating, successful man had a great capacity for hero-worship. He was a power in the college, and would have been in any society. He had force, decision, the liking for action; he revelled in command. He was nearly fifty now, successful, within the modest limits he set himself, in all he undertook. In the college he was Dean (a lay official of standing, though by this time the functions were dying away); in the university he was well known, sat on the Council of the Senate, was always being appointed to committees and syndicates. He made a more than usually comfortable academic income. He had three grown-up daughters, and had married each of them well. He adored his wife. But he was still capable of losing himself in hero-worship, and the generous, humble impulse often took the oddest forms. Sometimes he fixed on a business magnate, or an eminent soldier, or a politician; he was drawn to success and power on the grand scale — to success and power, which, in his own sphere, he knew so well how to get.
But the oldest and strongest of his worships was for Royce. That was why he was uncontrollably curt to me in the court that morning.
‘I must get on,’ he said. ‘We shall have to find a successor. I shall have to think out who I want. I’ll have a word with Brown. And I should like five minutes with you.’
As we parted, he said: ‘There’s something else Brown and I want to talk to you about. The way I see it, it’s more important than the next Master.’
3: A Small Party in the Combination Room
The combination room glowed warm when I entered it that evening. No one had yet come in, and the lights were out; but the fire flared in the open grate, threw shadows on to the curtains, picked out the glasses on the oval table, already set for the after-dinner wine. I took a glass of sherry and an evening paper, and settled myself in an armchair by the fire. A decanter of claret, I noticed, was standing at the head of the table; there were only six places laid, and a great stretch of the mahogany shone polished and empty.
Jago and Winslow came in nearly together. Winslow threw his square into one armchair and sat in another himself; he gave me his mordant, not unfriendly grin.
‘May I pour you some sherry, Bursar?’ said Jago, not at ease with him.
‘If you please. If you please.’
‘I’m dreadfully afraid I’ve spilt most of it,’ said Jago, beginning to apologize.
‘It’s so good of you to bring it,’ said Winslow.
Just then the butler entered with the dining-list and presented it to Winslow.
‘We are a very small party tonight,’ he said. ‘Ourselves, the worthy Brown and Chrystal, and young Luke.’ He glanced at the decanter on the table. He added: ‘We are a small party, but I gather that one of us is presenting a bottle. I am prepared to bet another bottle that we owe this to the worthy Brown. I wonder what remarkable event he is celebrating now.’