Last Things (46 page)

(It was I thought later, a slice of official, or functional, England, but not one that the young were familiar with. Few people there were likely to be mentioned in gossip columns and fewer were rich. Some of the scientists had creative work of the highest order to their credit, but a young man as well informed as Gordon Bestwick would scarcely know their names.)

A hymn. A prayer: the kind of prayer, I thought, that one heard at American ceremonies, designed not to give offence to any religion. Another hymn. Then Arthur Brown, surpliced, hooded, bejowled, high-coloured, mounted the pulpit. He mounted with firm heavy steps. He had always been heavy, but getting towards eighty he was hale and carried his stomach high.

In a strong voice, vowels well rounded, he began. He began much as we expected. Yes, we were thinking, it won’t be exciting, but it will be acceptable. About how Francis had been a pillar of the college, the university, the scientific community, the state. About how he was a man so just that some had thought him overnice. ‘But no juster man has ever walked the courts of this college.’ About how he was absolutely upright in all his dealings. ‘He was the most scrupulous of colleagues. As well as being one of the three or four most eminent members of our society during the present century.’

All that was good enough. Orotund, like Arthur Brown in public. More from the outside than he could be, talking with slow cunning about someone he knew well. Perhaps he had never known Francis well. Or not noticed the struggle between the disciplined and the acerb.

Then Arthur Brown clutched the lectern, looked down the chapel, right out through the doors, with a hard, dark, resolute gaze. ‘Now I have to speak in a way which may be painful for some present. But if I did not, it would be hypocrisy on my part, and hypocrisy of a kind which our colleague would have been one of the first to resent. I have to tell you that he was not a Christian. He did not believe in the religion to which this chapel is dedicated, and which some of us here profess. What is more, he did not believe in a religion of any kind. He was an utterly truthful man, and he would not compromise on this matter. So far as I can remember, he entered this chapel only for the purposes of electing a Master, that is only twice in his whole life. I am certain, that if he had honoured us by becoming our Master himself, he would not have felt able to perform any ceremonial duties within the chapel.’ Anyone who knew Arthur Brown must have been astonished. All his life he had been confining himself to emollient and cautious words. He had much dislike for the brash or those who said ‘something out of place’. Civility meant being careful: one’s own convictions and much less one’s self-expressions were no excuse for embarrassing others. But now – how much effort had it cost him? – he was letting go. Perhaps with a touch of defiance (that last remark about Francis’ not taking the Mastership was not calculated to give pleasure to the present occupant, sitting in the magisterial pew) such as the prudent felt when, just for once, they were not being prudent: but more so out of duty to a dead man.

‘And I cannot and will not talk of him in terms of the Christian virtues. It is more appropriate to talk and think of him in terms of a world before Christianity existed.

‘He was the absolutely upright man, such as the classical world admired. His life would have been a model to them: it is easy to imagine Lucretius saying that this was how a man should be. I wish to say that to you myself, but I was not prepared to let you hear it on false pretences. He lived a life better than most of us can aspire to, but he did it without the support of any faith.

‘I wish to press another thought upon you. He was, in his later years, a very happy man. Earlier he had his struggles – struggles for a better world in which some of us cannot believe, struggles on behalf of his country where we are all grateful to him. He had throughout the blessing of an ideally happy marriage, and he was doubly blessed in a family of exceptional gifts. All our sympathy goes out to his wife and children, but they should have the consolation of being certain how happy they made his life. For years past he lived in an Indian summer. He was not a man easily contented, but he had become totally contented. His scientific work had received full recognition. Only last year he was awarded the Copley medal of the Royal Society, the highest honour that the Society can give. In these past years he had private happiness and the esteem of his peers to an extent which is not granted to many men.

‘It is because of that I am presuming to offer what may be another small consolation to those who loved him. Life is always uncertain, as they have too much reason to know. Even that happiness of his might have been broken. There is a word from the classical world which he would have appreciated:
Call no man happy until he is dead
. It is little comfort to those who have lost him, but sometimes perhaps they will be able to tell themselves that he left them with his felicity unbroken.’

I was gazing at Katherine, whose fine features, strong and not congruent with the matronly form, had not stirred. Arthur Brown had been through serious illness: but had he known what it was like to be warned about his death? Or what Francis felt in his last months? Call no man happy…what did that sound like to those who had been close by? I had heard very little about the final illness. Either Arthur Brown had forgotten both his realism and his tact, or else he had found out more.

He retired, his tread audible in the silent chapel, from the pulpit to his place. Hymn. Prayer. The fellows began to file out, the Master stopping beside the Getliffes so as to ask them to go first. In the court, knots of people were gathering on the flagstones. The Master nodded to Arthur Brown, but did not speak. Nor did Nightingale, the only other man besides Brown who had remained a fellow from my time to this.

Katherine had, however, shaken Brown’s hand, and the Getliffe family were clustering round him. All seemed pleased, and without qualms. In the crowd, Margaret was talking to an old acquaintance, the Getliffes were being joined by colleagues of Francis, and I hung about waiting for a chance to speak with Arthur Brown.

When we were able to move off, the two of us, out of the ruck, I said: ‘Well done.’

‘I hope Francis would have liked it.’

‘I’m sure he would.’ Francis wouldn’t have been above thinking that, if G S Clark and Nightingale were affronted, not only as personal enemies, but also as religious devotees, so much the better. I didn’t say that to Arthur, who was a latitudinarian member of the Church of England: disapproving of ‘enthusiasm’, though, very much as his nineteenth-century predecessors had done.

‘Old friend,’ said Arthur, ‘he’ll leave a gap here, you know. We’re dropping off one by one.’

He was speaking with regret, or nostalgia, but not like an old man. He went on: ‘I wish you hadn’t gone away from us, Lewis. Oh, I know you couldn’t have done what you had to do if you’d stayed. But still – this isn’t quite the place it was.’

I said, with the whole university expanding, it couldn’t be –

‘I dare say it’s better, but it isn’t quite the same. It’s not very loyal to criticise, because the college has been enormously kind to me, it has given me so much more than I deserved.’ That was not mock modesty, but the real thing: Arthur had never had much opinion of himself.

‘But I can’t get used to changes. I’ve reached the stage when I don’t really enjoy a person’s company unless I’ve known him for a long time.’

I said: ‘I’ve found young Charles’ friends a bit refreshing–’

‘Ah. That reminds me.’ Suddenly Arthur had brightened up. ‘I did want to have a word with you about that young man. Just for your ear alone. He’s done perfectly splendidly, of course. It did occur to me that we might manage to construct a vacancy for him here. Mind you, I can’t promise anything. I couldn’t think of guaranteeing anything until I’d found out how the land was lying. There are some people who mightn’t be entirely favourable. But there might be a chance that we should turn out too strong for them–’

With a touch of his old zest, with more than a touch of his old labyrinthine pertinacity, Arthur proceeded to examine how the college might be induced to elect Charles to a fellowship before ‘others get in first’. The college had to poach nowadays, especially in subjects like Charles’ which were becoming short of first-class talent. Someone had mentioned another Trinity man called Bestwick, but Arthur didn’t at present feel ‘so keen about him’.

‘Of course,’ Arthur reiterated, ‘this is entirely between ourselves. I can’t possibly promise anything. It might be better if you regarded this conversation as not having happened, at any rate for the time being–’

Then Arthur went up to his rooms, after an affectionate goodbye, still dubious about my discretion and inclined to treat me, as he had always done, as a man of promise not yet old enough or experienced enough to be entirely trustworthy in serious affairs.

Now the court had emptied, Margaret and Martin taking a porter with them to fetch our bags: Charles alone remained, who had earlier transported his own to the porter’s lodge. He came and joined me, at the foot of the staircase which I used to climb.

‘I expect you’re glad that’s all over,’ he said in a quiet and sympathetic tone, indicating the chapel. I nodded.

He hesitated. We had scarcely been alone together since Francis’ death.

‘I didn’t know him well,’ he said. ‘But it was a comfort to feel that he was there.’

That was an epitaph of which Francis might have been glad. Charles went on to mention the memorial address. Didn’t it deserve very high marks for ruffling dovecotes, and putting cats among pigeons? Wouldn’t it be mildly fun to be dining at high table that night? Charles didn’t need telling that this had been the most uncharacteristic gesture – almost the only gesture – of old Arthur’s peace-loving college life.

He did need telling, though, of something which wasn’t at all uncharacteristic, Arthur’s desire to manipulate the college machine on a move, this time on behalf of Charles himself. Charles said: ‘He’s a sweet old man.’

Not always so sweet, when he was in action, I said. Charles was smiling. He gave no indication of whether the offer meant anything to him. Yes or no: or even whether he would, in Arthur’s own old phrase, sleep on it.

On the other hand, he was disturbed that Arthur seemed to have ruled Gordon Bestwick out.

‘What the hell is the matter? If you don’t mind me saying it, this isn’t a great college. By God, they won’t get a chap like Leonard once in ten years–’

Somebody else would take him, I said, but Charles was not appeased.

Couldn’t I use my influence with Arthur to get him to think again? I said, neither I nor anyone else had any influence with Arthur. Once his mind was set, he was as obstinate as a mule.

Charles, not satisfied, was wondering about other approaches. It hadn’t occurred to him, apparently, that Gordon’s reputation as an activist would not be an overpowering inducement to Arthur Brown. Perhaps because Charles did not find his own getting in his way: but then he had been more discreet, and would in any case be forgiven a great deal by Arthur. Anyway, I was relieved that Charles was for once less than acute. I didn’t wish to quarrel about politics that day; nor more did he. He was being easy and friendly, ready either to amuse or soothe or just stay at my side.

We walked, very slowly, clockwise round the court. Looking at the lodge and Hall, lines clear, stone honey-coloured in the sun, I told him what I thought to myself that October evening nearly three years before. When I first saw those buildings, they were grey with the soot of years, and covered with creeper. Now, the theory was, we saw them as when they were built – except that the windows would have been entirely different, the facade of another kind of stone, and the roof of the Hall feet lower. Charles, not specially modernist in visual taste, said: ‘I expect it always looked pretty pleasant, though.’

He added: ‘It’s very handsome, in a quiet way, isn’t it?’

He might have said that to please me, but it was true. He might have said also, but that wouldn’t have come so easy to him – that it was very English. At least, I had never seen anything like it out of England.

In the bedroom of the lodge, a light had been left on, pale and unavailing in the sunshine.

‘You must have walked round here a good few times,’ he said.

‘Yes, quite a few,’

He smiled. ‘In various assorted moods, if I know you.’

‘Yes, that too.’

He couldn’t have divined it, but without any justification at all, since Martin was there to be visited, I had had a feeling, hard-cut, dismissive, that I was seeing the place for the last time.

IT was a domestic scene such as we had once been used to, and were no longer. Our drawing-room: lights already on, though the time was only nine o’clock, a few days after midsummer. Outside, a cool cloudy evening, for, since the day of Francis’ memorial service, the weather had returned to form. Present, along with me, Margaret and her two sons. It was a family evening which, a few years before, we should have taken for granted and thought nothing of.

As it was, Maurice had come to the flat because his wife had gone into hospital. The baby was a few days overdue, and both he and Margaret were conscious of the telephone beside the door. It was the first time I had seen Maurice show the effects of suspense, or of waiting. In the periods when he had taken examinations, he had, with maddening acceptance, not been anxious about the results, assuming them to be bad: he hadn’t ever appeared worried about someone turning up for an assignation, as the rest of us had been, watching the clock on the restaurant wall, making excuses for the non-arrival, with pique, anger, and with longing.

Now Maurice, though he made no complaint, seemed no better at waiting than anyone else.

His only sign of the old self-forgetfulness came soon after he had met Charles that evening. Maurice had said, gently but unhesitantly, that he hoped Muriel was well and happy. And that he hoped Charles was ‘looking after her’. No one else would have spoken to Charles like that. It might have seemed impertinent, if it hadn’t been said with so little self-assertion. Anyway, Charles took it, though he didn’t make an explicit reply.