‘Well,’ said Brown, ‘if Jago were to be elected Master, the college would need a new Senior Tutor. And it seems to me possible that some people would want me to follow him in the job.’
‘It’s a complete and utter certainty,’ I said. That was the truth.
‘It’s nice of you to say so, but I don’t believe it’s as certain as that. There are plenty who don’t think much of me,’ Brown chuckled. ‘But I can’t pretend it’s not a possibility. Well then, you see the problem. Am I justified in trying to get Jago in as Master, when I may provide myself with a better job out of it?’
‘There’s no doubt of the answer—’
‘Yes,’ said Brown. ‘I’ve arrived there myself after thinking it over. If one always stopped supporting people whose election could bring one the slightest advantage, it would be remarkably silly. Put it another way — only a crank could really be stopped by such scruples.’ He burst into his wholehearted, fat man’s laughter.
‘So I’m quite easy in my conscience about supporting Jago,’ he finished up. ‘But I’m still not ready to commit myself. He’d be a good Master, in my judgement. I’d put it a bit stronger, and say that he’s the best Master in view. We don’t want to run him, though, unless he’s got plenty of support. It would do no good to anyone.’
‘Well,’ he said, with a smile good-natured, cunning and wise, ‘that’s what I’ve been thinking. That’s as far as I’ve got.’
5: Success and Envy
Jago came to see me that afternoon. He made no reference to our first talk, or to the conversation about the Mastership the night before; but he had manufactured an excuse to call on me. He had thought up some questions about my law pupils; neither he nor I was interested in the answers.
He had been driven to see me — so that, if I had anything to say, he would know at once. His delicacy revolted, but he could not prevent himself from spinning out the visit. Was I going to Ireland again? He talked, with unaccustomed flatness, about his native town of Dublin. Not that he showed the vestigial trace of an Irish accent. He was born in the Ascendancy, his stock was as English as any of ours: he had — surprisingly, until one knew his origin — the militant conservatism of the Anglo-Irish. His father had been a fellow of Trinity, Dublin, and Jago was the only one of the present college who had been born into the academic life.
He went on talking, still tied to my room, unable to recognize that I could say nothing that day. I thought that no one else in his position would have kept his dignity so well; whatever his excesses, that remained. Before he went away, he had to ask: ‘Did I hear that you and Chrystal and Brown were colloguing this morning?’
‘Yes. It was just a financial matter. They wanted a legal opinion.’
He smiled off his disappointment.
‘You three work much too hard,’ he said.
The college was slowly filling up. I heard that Nightingale and Pilbrow were back from vacation, though I had not yet seen them. And the next evening, a few minutes before hall, I heard a familiar step on my staircase, and Roy Calvert came in.
He had been working for three months in Berlin. With relief I saw that he was looking well, composed and gay. He was the most gifted man the college had produced for years; as the Master said, he had already won an international reputation as an Orientalist. Yet he was sometimes a responsibility. He was the victim of attacks of melancholy so intense that no one could answer for his actions, and there had been times when he could scarcely bear the thought of living on.
That night, though, I knew at a glance that he was rested. He was more as I first knew him, cheerful, lively, disrespectful, and kind. He was my closest friend in Cambridge, and the closest I ever had. Thinking of the life he had led, the work he had got through, one found it hard to remember that he was not yet twenty-seven; yet in a gay mood, his eyes sparkling with malicious fun, he still looked very young.
We arrived a little late in the combination room, just in time to see Gay, with slow, shuffling steps, leading the file into hall. He was wearing an overcoat under his gown, so as to meet the draughty hall, and under the long coat there was something tortoise-like about his feet; but, when one looked at his face, there was nothing pathetic about him. His cheeks were red, his beard white, trimmed and sailor- like, his white hair silky and abundant; he carried his handsome head with arrogance and panache. He was nearly eighty, and the oldest fellow.
As he sat at the head of the table, tucking with good appetite into his food, Brown was trying to explain to him the news about the Master. Gay had not heard, or had forgotten: his memory was beginning to flicker and fade, he forgot quickly about the weeks and months just past. Brown was having some trouble in making it clear which Master he meant; Gay seemed to be thinking about the last Master but one.
‘Ah. Indeed,’ said Gay. ‘Very sad. But I have some recollection that he had to live on one floor some little time ago.’
‘That wasn’t the present Master,’ said Brown patiently. ‘I mean Royce.’
‘Indeed. Royce. You didn’t make that clear,’ Gay reproved him. ‘He’s surely a very young man. We only elected him recently. So he’s going, is he? Ah well, it will be a sad break with the past.’
He showed the triumph of the very old, when they hear of the death of a younger man. He felt half his age. Suddenly he noticed Roy Calvert, and his memory cleared.
‘Ah. Do I see Calvert? Haven’t you been deserting us?’
‘I got back to England this morning.’
‘Let me see. Let me see. Haven’t you been in Germany?’
‘Yes,’ said Roy Calvert.
‘I hadn’t forgotten you,’ said Gay victoriously. ‘And where in Germany, may I ask?’
‘Berlin.’
‘Ah. Berlin. A fine city. A fine university. I was once given an honorary degree of the university of Berlin. I remember it to this day. I remember being met at the Zoo station by one of their scholars — fine scholars they have in that country — and his first words were: “Professor M H L Gay, I think. The great authority on the sagas.” Ah. What do you think of that, Calvert? What do you think of that, Brown? The great authority on the sagas. They were absolutely the first words I heard when I arrived at the station. I had to demur to the word “great” of course.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘I said: “You can call me the authority on the sagas, if you like. The authority, without the great”.’
Brown and Chrystal chuckled. On Chrystal’s left, Nightingale looked polite but strained. Roy Calvert’s eyes shone: solemn and self-important persons were usually fair game to him, but Gay was too old. And his gusto was hard to resist.
‘That reminds me,’ Gay went on, ‘about honorary degrees. Do you know that I’ve now absolutely collected fourteen of them? What do you think of that, Calvert? What do you think of that, Chrystal?’
‘I call it pretty good,’ said Chrystal, smiling but impressed.
‘Fourteen honorary degrees. Not bad, eh? From every civilized country except France. The French have never been willing to recognize merit outside their own country. Still, fourteen isn’t so bad. And there’s still time for one or two more.’
‘I should think there is,’ said Chrystal. ‘I should think there is. And I shall want to present a bottle in honour of every one of them, Gay.’
Gay said the final grace in a ringing voice, and led us slowly back to the room. On the table, a bottle of port was ready for him; though the rest of us preferred claret, it was a rule that the college should drink port on any night when he came in to dine. As Chrystal helped him off with his overcoat, Gay’s eye glittered at the sight of walnuts in a silver dish.