Roy’s antic at the end of the feast meant more delay for Brown. He had listened to an indignant outburst from his old ally Chrystal, who was, like so many people, mystified by Roy’s manner. “I don’t know,” Chrystal snapped. “He may have thought Barratt was an old man who was trying to get qualified. In that case he’s a born bloody fool. Or it may be his idea of a joke. But I don’t want that sort of joke made by a fellow of this college. I tell you, Barratt was right up in the air about it. He earns £20,000 a year if he earns a penny, and he’s not used to being made an exhibition of.”
It did not seem as though anything could make Chrystal vote for Roy now, and Brown had to change his tactics. “It’s an infernal nuisance,” he said. “I should almost feel justified in washing my hands of the whole business. I wish you’d keep Calvert in order, the damned ass.”
But, though Brown was annoyed because his particular craft was being interfered with, he was secretly amused; and, like the born politician he was, he did not waste time thinking of opportunity lost. He was committed to getting Calvert in. He believed he was backing a great talent, he had a stubborn and unshakable affection for Roy (behind Brown’s comfortable flesh there was a deep sympathy with the wild), and with all the firmness of his obstinate nature he started on a new plan. Wait for the absentee to return in October: then invite down to the college the only two men in England who were authorities on Roy’s work. “It’s a risk,” said Brown in a minatory voice. “Some people may feel we’re using unfair influence. It’s one thing to write for opinions, it’s quite another to produce the old gentlemen themselves. But I’m anxious to give Getliffe something to think about. Our friends mustn’t be allowed to flatter themselves that we’ve shot our bolt.”
So, in the first week of the Michaelmas term, one of the customary college notes went out: “Those fellows who are interested in Mr R C E Calvert’s candidature may like to know that Sir Oulstone Lyall and Colonel E St G Foulkes, the chief authorities on Mr Calvert’s subject, will be my guests in hall on Sunday night. A B.”
The Master, after talking to Brown, thought it politic not to dine in hall that Sunday night; none of the old men came, though it was by now certain that the two seniors would vote for Roy; Despard-Smith had said, in a solemn grating voice the night before, that he had ordered cold supper for himself in his rooms. Winslow was the next in seniority, and he presided with his own cultivated rudeness.
“It’s a most remarkable occasion that we should have you two distinguished visitors,” he said as soon as dinner began. “We appear to owe this remarkable occasion to the initiative of our worthy Mr Brown.”
“Yes,” said Colonel Foulkes undiplomatically. “We’ve come to talk about Calvert.”
He was in his sixties, but neither his black hair nor his thick, downcurling, ginger moustache showed any grey at all. His cheeks were rubicund, his eyes a bright and startled brown. He always answered at extreme speed, as though the questions were reflected instantaneously off the front of his head. Action came more easily than reflection, one felt as soon as one heard him – and hot-tempered explosions a good deal more easily than comfortable argument. Yet he was fond of explaining the profound difference Yoga had meant in giving him peace beyond this world, since his time in the Indian Army. India had also led him to the study of the early Persian languages, as well as to Yoga – and everyone agreed that he was a fine scholar. He held a great many cranky interests at once, and at heart was fervent, wondering, and very simple.
“Indeed,” said Winslow. “Yes, I remember that we were promised the benefit of your judgment. I had a faint feeling, though, that we had already seen your opinion on paper about this young man. I may be stupid, I’m very ignorant about these things. But I seem to recall that the Master circulated what some of my colleagues would probably call a ‘dossier’.”
“Does no harm to say it twice,” said Colonel Foulkes at once. “You can’t do better.”
“If you please?”
“You can’t do better than Calvert. Impossible to get a better man.”
“It’s most interesting,” said Winslow, “to hear such a favourable opinion.”
“Not just my opinion,” said Colonel Foulkes. “Everyone agrees who’s competent to give one. Listen to Lyall.”
Sir Oulstone Lyall inclined his high, bald, domed head towards Winslow. He wore an impersonal, official, ambassadorial smile. He was used to being the spokesman for Central Asian history. He did it with a lofty gratification and self-esteem. It was noticeable that Foulkes deferred to him with admiration and respect.
“I must begin by covering myself under a warning, Mr President,” said Sir Oulstone in measured tones. “We all try to keep our sense of perspective, but it’s straining humanity not to exaggerate the importance of the subject to which one has devoted one’s small abilities for most of one’s life.”
Heads were nodded. The table was used to this kind of public approach. They could stand more pomp than most bodies of men.
“I must make that qualification,” said Sir Oulstone without any sign of hurry. “I may have a certain partiality for the studies with which I have associated for longer than I sometimes care to think. But, if you will kindly allow for that partiality, I may be able to assist you about Mr Calvert.” He paused. “I think I can say, with a full sense of responsibility, that among the younger workers Mr Calvert is the chief hope that our studies now possess.”
It never occurred to Sir Oulstone that the college might dispute his judgment. For a time, his confidence had a hypnotic effect on all there, and on Brown’s face there grew a comfortable, appreciative smile. Even Winslow did not produce a caustic remark, and it was left for Francis Getliffe to cross-examine Sir Oulstone about his detailed knowledge of Roy’s work. Francis, who was a precise and accurate man, knew that all Roy’s published work was linguistic – and he was right in thinking that Sir Oulstone was a historian, not a linguist at all. But Sir Oulstone was quite unperturbed by the questions: he turned to Foulkes, with the manner of one whistling up a technical assistant, and said with unshaken confidence: “Foulkes, I should like you to deal with that interesting point.” And Foulkes was off the mark at once.
Colonel Foulkes was off the mark even more rapidly when someone made a remark about Roy’s character.
“Splendid fellow. Everything you could wish for,” said Foulkes.
“I have heard reports,” said Winslow, “that the young man finds time for some night life. In the intervals of making his contribution to your subject, Sir Oulstone,” he added caustically, but I fancied that he was reluctant to bring in scandal. He had not done it before, and it was not his line.
“Nonsense,” said Colonel Foulkes instantaneously. “Fine clean-living fellow. He’s got his books and games, he doesn’t want anything else.”
Someone said a word, and Foulkes became incensed. “Listening to women’s gossip.” He glared round with hot, brown eyes. “Utterly unthinkable to anyone who knows Calvert as well as I do.”
Sir Oulstone intervened.
“I cannot pretend to have very intimate knowledge of Mr Calvert personally,” he said. “Though I may say that I’ve formed a very favourable impression. He does not thrust himself forward in the presence of his elders. But my friend Colonel Foulkes has been in constant touch with him–”
“The army teaches you to see the seamy side,” said Foulkes, still irate but simmering down. “Perhaps living in sheltered places makes you see things that aren’t there. Afraid I can’t leave this thing in its present state. I must correct this impression. Absolute nonsense. You couldn’t have a finer specimen of a young man.”
Immediately after we rose from hall, Foulkes went away without going into the combination room. He would not let a minute pass before he “corrected the impression”, and he had gone off, hot-temperedly, loyally, without thinking twice, to see the Master. Sir Oulstone blandly continued his praise of Roy for an hour in the combination room: for all his blandness, for all his impenetrable pomposity, he had a real desire to see his subject grow. As we broke up, I could not decide what had been the effect of this curious evening.
Later that night, I called on Roy. He was alone, the opalescent viewing screen was still lighted at the top of his tall desk, but he was sunk into an armchair. At the little table by his side, books had been pushed out of order, so as to make room for a bottle of brandy and a glass.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Not tired enough.”
He did not smile, he scarcely looked at me, his face was drawn and fixed with sadness.
“Have a drink, Lewis.”
“No.”
“You don’t mind me?” he said with a sad ironic courtesy, poured himself another glass, and took a gulp.
“There’s nothing special the matter, is there?” I asked, but I knew that it was not so.
“How could there be?”
He seemed to struggle from a depth far away, as he asked: “What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been in hall.”
“A good place, hall.”
“We were talking of you.”
“You should have something better to do,” he cried, half-angrily, half-wretchedly.
“It must happen just now, you know.” I tried to soothe him.
“They should forget me.”
“I told you, Oulstone Lyall was coming down–”
“He’s a dreadful man.”
“He’s pretty pompous,” I said. “But he was doing you very proud–”
“He should be told to stop,” said Roy with a grimace, sombre and frowning. “He’s a dreadful man. He’s stuffed. He’s never doubted himself for a minute in his life.”
In any mood, Roy was provoked by the Lyalls, by the self-satisfied, protected, and content; they were the men he could not meet as brothers. But now he was inflamed.
“He never even doubted himself when he pinched Erzberger’s work,” cried Roy.
Roy drank another brandy, and wildly told me of the scandal of thirty years before.
“It’s true,” said Roy angrily. “You don’t believe it, but it’s true.”
“Tell me the whole story some time.”
“You don’t need to humour me. That dreadful man oughtn’t to be talking nonsense about me. I need to stop him.”
I had never seen Roy so overwhelmed by despondency as this. I did not know what to expect, or what to fear next. I was appalled that night by the wild active gleam that kept striking out of the darkness. He did not submit to the despair, but struggled for anything that gave release.
All I could do, I thought, was try to prevent any action that might damage himself. I said that stretches of unhappiness had to be lived through; somehow one emerged from them; they were bad enough in themselves, it was worse if they left consequences when one was calm once again.
Roy listened, his eyes bright, bloodshot. He replied more gently than he had spoken that night.
“Dear old boy, you know what it is to be miserable, don’t you? But you think it ought to be kept in separate compartments, don’t you? You don’t believe that it ought to interfere with really serious things. Such as getting fellowships.”
“It’s better if it doesn’t,” I said.
“I wish I were as stoical as you,” he said. “Yet you’ve been hopeless, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just so. I’ll try, old boy, I’ll try. I can’t promise much.”
He was quiet for a time, and did not take another drink until Ralph Udal came in. Since I first met him, he had borrowed a considerable sum of money from Roy. He had followed Roy’s advice, and had taken a London curacy. He kept coming up to see Roy, so as to plan support within the college; but I knew he was also watching for Roy to be converted. His watch was patient, effortless, almost sinister. However, he was not so patient about obtaining his country living. Despite Roy’s instructions, he had been trying to hurry things that weekend. He had been calling on the Master, Despard-Smith, the Senior Tutor, Brown, in order to sound them about the next vacancy; he was being much more open than Roy thought wise.
“Wonderful!” shouted Roy as Udal entered. “Old Lewis won’t drink, but you will, won’t you?”
Udal took a sip of brandy, and looked at Roy with passive good-nature.
“Haven’t you had enough?” he said.
“Probably,” said Roy, drinking again. “Well, what did they say to you?”
Udal shrugged his shoulders. He seemed irritated and chagrined.
“They don’t seem anxious to let me retire.”
“The devils,” said Roy.
“They think I’m too young to settle down in comfort. I’ve always had a faint objection,” said Udal, “to people who find it necessary to make one do unpleasant things for the good of one’s soul. Why do they take it on themselves to make life into a moral gymnasium?”
“Why do they, Lewis? You should know,” cried Roy.
I shook my head, and caught his eye. The gleam had come again; but, as he saw my look, anxious and disturbed, he still seemed enough in command to quieten himself.
“At any rate,” he added in a level tone, “you’re spared having a man like old Lyall talking nonsense about you.”
“Who is Lyall?” said Udal.
“You wouldn’t like him. He’s stuffed.” Again Roy told the scandal of Lyall and Erzberger’s work, but this time in a sad, contemptuous voice.
“Yours must be a curious trade,” said Udal.
“It doesn’t signify,” said Roy. “All men are the same, aren’t they?”
He went on drinking, though neither of us kept him company. It was getting late, and soon after midnight Udal and I both wanted to go. Roy begged us to stay a little longer. At last we got up, although he implored us not to leave him.
“You two may sleep, but I shan’t. So why should you go?” There was a trace of a smile. “Please don’t go. What’s the use of going to bed if you can’t sleep? And if you do sleep, you only dream. Dreams are horrible.”
“You’ll sleep now, if you go to bed,” I said.
“You don’t know,” said Roy. “I shan’t sleep tonight. I’ll do anything you like. Let’s do anything. Let’s play cards. Three-handed bezique. Please stay and play bezique with me. Good game, three-handed bezique. It’s a wonderful game. Please stay and play. Please stay with me.”