The Masters (37 page)

In the evening Jago came to my room.

‘Have you heard anything fresh?’ His tone was jaunty, but under his eyes the skin was stained and dry.

‘Nothing at all.’

‘I want you to tell me anything you know. The very moment it happens,’ he said, menacing me with the force of his anxiety. ‘This is a bad enough business without having to wonder whether one’s friends are keeping anything back.’

‘I’ll keep nothing back,’ I promised.

‘I must be an unendurable nuisance to you.’ He smiled. ‘So there really isn’t any news? When I lay awake last night, I thought of all the absolutely inexplicable things I had watched the college do–’

‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘Never mind,’ said Jago. ‘I shall sleep in a couple of nights. So good old Arthur Brown wasn’t prepared to be made a convenience of. That takes us back where we started. They really have got to make the bizarre choice between me and my opponent. And nothing has happened to upset the balance, so far as you know?’

His moods were not stable, he was strained and expectant, fervent and hostile, at odd moments sarcastically detached, all in the same excitement of the nerves. Above all, his optimism had not left him. To his wife I was certain he maintained that he would get in. Some men would have defended themselves by saying that they expected the worst. Jago in his proud and reckless spirit was not able to protect himself by such a dodge. There was something nakedly defenceless about his optimism. He seemed quite without the armour, the thickening of the skin, that most men take on insensibly as the years pass.

I wanted to guard him, but he resisted the slightest word of doubt. He listened and thanked me, but his eyes were flashing with an excitement that I could not touch. He knew very little about what had happened at the meeting in Chrystal’s room, and even less about the cumulative disagreement between Brown and Chrystal. He did not want to know of it. That evening he still had hope, and as he lay sleepless through the long night to come it would steady his heart.

We went in the combination room together before hall; there were several men already waiting, but no one spoke. The constraint took hold of us like a field of force. Despard-Smith was there, Francis Getliffe, Nightingale, Roy Calvert. It was not that they had been talking of Jago, and were embarrassed to see him. It was not the constraint of a conversation left in the air – but simply the paralysing weight that comes upon men at a late stage of their struggle. Even Roy’s sparkle was borne down under it. When we took our places in hall, there was still almost no word spoken. Despard-Smith sat at our head, solemnly asking for toast, muted and grave by contrast to the inflamed old man of the night before.

Then Luke bustled in late. He hurled himself into the seat next Roy Calvert’s, and swallowed a plate of soup at an enormous pace. He looked up and smiled round at us indiscriminately – at me, at Francis, at Nightingale. I had never seen a face more radiant with joy. One did not notice the pleasant youthful features: all one saw was this absolute, certain and effulgent happiness, and it warmed one to the bottom of the heart.

‘Well?’ I could not resist smiling broadly back.

‘I’ve got it out! I know for sure I’ve got it out!’

‘Which part of it?’ said Francis Getliffe.

‘The whole damned caboodle. The whole bloody beautiful bag of tricks. I’ve got the answer to the slow neutron business, Getliffe. It’s all just come tumbling out.’

‘Are you certain?’ asked Francis, unwilling to believe it.

‘Of course I’m certain. Do you think I’d stick my neck out like this if I weren’t certain It’s as plain as the palm of my hand.’

Francis cross-questioned him, and for minutes the technical words rapped across the table – ‘neutrons’, ‘collision’, ‘stopping power’, ‘alphas’. Francis was frowning, envious despite himself, more eager to find a hole than to be convinced that Luke was right. But Luke was unperturbed, all faces were friendly on this day of certain joy; he gave his explanations at a great speed, fired in his homely figures of speech, was too exalted to keep back his cheerful swear words; yet even a layman came to feel how clear and masterful he was in everything he said. Gradually, as though reluctantly, Francis’ frown left his face, and there came instead his deep, creased smile. He was seeing something that compelled his admiration. His own talent was strong enough to make him respond; this was a major work, and for a moment he was disinterested, keen with admiration, smiling an experienced and applauding smile.

‘Good work!’ he cried. ‘Lord, it’s nice work. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard for a long time.’

‘It’s pretty good,’ said Luke, unashamed, with no pretence of modesty though his cheeks were flushing scarlet.

‘I believe it’s wonderful,’ said Jago, who had been listening with intent interest, as though he could drown his anxieties in this young man’s joy. ‘Not that I understand most of your detestable words. But you do tell us that he has done something remarkable, don’t you, Getliffe?’

‘It’s beautiful work,’ said Francis with great authority.

‘I’m more glad than I can say,’ said Jago to Luke. Nightingale had turned his head away and was looking down the hall.

‘When did you know you’d made a discovery?’ cried Jago.

‘I thought a week ago the wretched thing was coming out,’ said Luke, who used a different set of terms. ‘But I’ve thought so before a dozen bloody times. This time though I had a hunch that it was different. I’ve been pretty well living and feeding at the lab ever since. That was why I didn’t come to the meeting on Monday,’ he added affably to Despard-Smith, who gave a bleak nod.

‘The little powwow,’ Roy said to Despard-Smith, by way of explanation.

‘I could almost have sworn it was right that night. But I’ve been bitten by false bloody dawns too many times. I’ve not been to bed since. I wasn’t going to leave off until I knew the answer one way or the other.

‘It’s wonderful,’ he burst out in a voice that carried up and down the table, ‘when you’ve got a problem that is really coming out. It’s like making love – suddenly your unconscious takes control. And nothing can stop you. You know that you’re making old Mother Nature sit up and beg. And you say to her “I’ve got you, you old bitch.” You’ve got her just where you want her. Then to show there’s no ill-feeling, you give her an affectionate pinch on the bottom.’

He leaned back, exhausted, resplendent, cheerful beyond all expression. Getliffe grinned at him with friendly understanding, Jago laughed aloud. Roy Calvert gave me half a wink (for young Luke’s discretion had vanished in one colossal sweep) and took it upon himself to divert Despard-Smith’s attention.

In the combination room, Jago presented a bottle to mark ‘a notable discovery completed this day by the junior fellow’, as he announced for the formal toast. Hearing what was to happen, Nightingale rushed away before the health was drunk. Despard-Smith, who had his own kind of solemn formal courtesy, congratulated Luke and then settled down to the port. Luke took one of the largest cigars and smoked it over his glass, drowsy at last, his head humming with whirling blessedness. And Jago, with a gentle and paternal smile, did what I had never seen him do, and took a cigar himself. The two sat together, the square ruddy boy, happy as he might never be again, and the man whose face bore so much suffering. As each listened to the other, the tip of his cigar glowed. They were talking about the stars. It was thirty-six hours before the election.

Francis Getliffe and I left them together, and walked to the gate. I hesitated about asking him up to my rooms, and then did not.

‘That’s very pretty work of young Luke’s,’ he said.

‘I gathered as much from what you said.’

‘I doubt if you know how good it is,’ he said. He paused. ‘It’s better than anything I’ve done yet. Much better.’

He was so quixotic, so upright, so passionately ambitious: all I could do was pretend to be ironic.

‘It’s time we two had a bit of luck,’ I said. ‘These boys are running off with all the prizes. Look at Roy Calvert’s work by the side of mine. I may catch up if I outlive him twenty years.’

Francis smiled absently, and we stopped under the lantern.

‘I ought to say something else, Lewis.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I thought Jago showed up very well tonight. There’s more in him than I allowed for.’

‘It isn’t too late,’ I said very quickly. ‘If you vote for him–’

Francis shook his head.

‘No, I shouldn’t begin to think of altering my vote,’ he said. ‘I know I’m right.’

The day before the election, December 19th, passed with dragging slowness. Throughout the morning there was no news: only Roy visited me, and as we chatted we were waiting for the next chime of the clock: time stretched itself silently out between the quarters. It was not raining, but the clouds were a level dun. Before lunch we walked through the streets and Roy bought some more presents; afterwards he left me alone in my room.

There Brown joined me in the middle of the afternoon. It was a relief to see him, rather than go on trying to read. But there was something ominous in his first deliberate question.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘whether you had Chrystal with you.’

‘I’ve not seen him since the meeting,’ I said.

‘I’ve not seen him,’ said Brown, ‘since he approached me afterwards in the sense that I’ve already given you my opinion of. But I thought it might not be unwise if I got into touch with him today. I’ve called round at his house, but they said that they thought he’d gone for a walk early this morning.’

I looked at the darkening window, against which the rain had begun to lash.

‘It seems an odd day to choose,’ I said.

‘I’ve tried his rooms,’ said Brown. ‘But it looks as though they had been empty all day.’

‘What is he doing?’

Brown shook his head.

‘I’m afraid that he’s in great distress of mind,’ he said.

It was for one reason alone that he was searching for Chrystal: he might still be able to influence him: using all the pressure of their friendship, he might still be able to keep him to Jago. On that last day, Brown had no room for other thoughts. He knew as well as I did where Chrystal had been tending. But Brown was enough of a politician never to lose all hope until the end, even though it was forlorn. One could not be a politician without that kind of resilient hope. When Chrystal asked him to be a candidate, Brown had felt for a time it was all lost. But now he had got back into action again. Chrystal was undecided, Chrystal was walking about in ‘distress of mind’ – Brown was ready to throw in all his years of understanding of his friend, there was still a chance of forcing him to vote for Jago next morning.

‘I am rather anxious to see him before tonight,’ said Brown, looking at me with his acute peering glance.

‘If I see him,’ I said, ‘I’ll let you know.’

‘I should be very much obliged if you would,’ said Brown. ‘Of course, I can always catch him at his house late tonight.’

His manner was deliberately prosaic and comfortable. He was showing less outward sign of strain than any of us; when he was frayed inside, he slowed down his always measured speech, brought out the steady commonplaces like an armour, reduced all he could to the matter-of-fact.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think I’d better be off to my rooms soon. I’ve still got some letters to write about the scholarships. Oh, there’s just one thing. I suppose you don’t happen to have talked to Jago today?’

I said that I had seen Jago in hall the night before.

‘How did you think he was?’

‘Hopeful. So hopeful that it frightened me.’

‘I know what you mean. I had an hour with him this morning. He was just the same. I tried to give him a little warning, but I couldn’t make any impression at all.’

‘If he doesn’t get in?–’ I said.

‘If he doesn’t get in,’ said Brown steadily, ‘I don’t believe he’ll ever be the same man again.’

He frowned and said: ‘It’s annoying to think that, if we were certain Chrystal was going to be sensible, we should have a decent prospect of tomorrow turning out all right. It’s a tantalizing thought.’

Then he left me, and I went to have tea with Roy. I returned to my rooms through rain which had set in for the night, and I settled by the fire, not wanting to move until dinner time. But I had not been there half an hour when the door opened.

‘Good evening, Eliot,’ said Chrystal in his sharpest parade ground voice. He was wearing a mackintosh, but it was only slightly damp at the shoulders, and his shoes were clean. He had not been walking much that day.

‘I want a word with you.’

I asked him to sit down, but he would not even take off his coat.

‘I’m busy. I’ve got to have a word with Brown.’ He was brusquer than I had ever heard him.

‘He’s in his rooms,’ I said.

‘I’ll go in three minutes. I shan’t take long with either of you. I shan’t stay long with Brown.’

He stared at me with bold, assertive, defiant eyes. ‘I’ve decided to vote for Crawford,’ he said. ‘He’s the better man.’

Like all news that one has feared hearing, it sounded flat.

‘It has been a lamentable exhibition,’ said Chrystal. ‘I tell you, Eliot, we’ve only just missed making a serious mistake. I saw it in time. We nearly passed Crawford over. I never liked it. He’s the right man.’

I began to argue, but Chrystal cut me short: ‘I haven’t time to discuss it. I’m satisfied with Crawford. I went round to see him this morning. I’ve been with him all day. I’ve heard his views on the college. I like them. It’s been a satisfactory day.’

‘I remember you saying–’

‘I’m sorry, Eliot. I haven’t time to discuss it. I’ve never been happy about this election. It’s been lamentable. I oughtn’t to have left it so late.’

‘It’s very hard to leave our party at this notice,’ I said angrily.

‘I joined it against my better judgement,’ he snapped.

‘That doesn’t affect it. You’re contracted to Jago. Have you told Brown?’

‘I didn’t want to write to Jago until I’d told Brown. I owe Brown an explanation. We’ve never had to explain anything to each other before. I’m sorry about that. It can’t be helped.’ He looked at me.