After we had drunk port in the combination room, we moved on to Brown’s rooms — Brown and Udal, Roy and I. The room was warm, the fire bright as usuaclass="underline" and as usual Brown went straight to unlock his cupboard.
“I don’t know what the company would say to a sip of brandy,” he remarked. “Myself, I find it rather gratifying at this time of night.”
We sat round the fire with our glasses in our hands, and Brown began to speak with luxurious caution.
“Well, Udal,” he said, “we were a bit rushed before dinner, but I tried to give you the lie of the land. We mustn’t promise more than we can perform. The chaplain is elected by the college, and the college is capable of doing some very curious things. Put it another way: I never feel certain that we’ve got a man in until I see it written down in black and white in the order book. I shouldn’t be treating you fairly if I gave you the impression that we could offer you the chaplaincy tonight. But I don’t think I’m going further than I should if I say this — let me see” — Brown chose his words deliberately — “if you see your way to letting your name go forward, I regard it as distinctly possible that we should be able to pull it off. I can go as far as that. I’ve spoken to one or two people, and I’m fairly satisfied that I’m not being over-optimistic.”
This meant that Arthur Brown had a majority assured for Udal, if he decided to stand. There would be bitter opposition from Despard-Smith, but the old man was losing his power, even on clerical matters. Step by step Arthur Brown had become the most influential person in the college.
“It’s very nice of you to think of me,” said Udal. “In many ways there’s nothing I should like better. Of course, there’s a good deal to weigh up. There’s quite a lot to be thought of for and against.”
“Of course there must be,” said Arthur Brown, who had a horror of premature decisions. “I should have thought you ought to sleep on it, before you even give us an indication of which way you’re going to come down. I don’t mean to suggest” — Brown added — “that you can possibly give us an answer tomorrow. But you might be able to produce one or two first impressions.”
I was certain that Udal would not take the job, and so was Roy. I did not know about Brown. He was so shrewd and observant that he must have caught the intonation of refusaclass="underline" but it was part of his habit to proceed with negotiations for a decent customary period, even when it was clear that the other had made up his mind. Brown’s intuitions were quick, but he disliked appearing to act on them. He preferred all the panoply of reasonable discussion. He knew as well as any man that most decisions are made on the spot and without thought; but it was proper and wise to behave as though men were as rational and deliberate as they pretended to be. So, with every appearance of interest and enjoyment, he answered Udal’s questions about the chaplaincy, the duties, stipend, possibilities of a fellowship: he met objections, raised some of his own, compared prospects, examined the details of Udal’s living. He even said: “If, as I very much hope, we finally manage to get you here, Udal, there is just one slightly delicate matter I might take this opportunity of raising. I take it that you wouldn’t find it absolutely necessary to introduce observances that some of us might think were rather too high?”
“I think I could promise that,” said Udal with a cheerful smile.
“I’m rather relieved to hear you say so,” Brown replied. “I shouldn’t like to interfere between any man and his religion. Some of the Catholics we’ve had here are as good chaps as you’re ever likely to meet. But I do take the view rather strongly that the public services of the college ought to keep a steady middle course. I shouldn’t like to see them moving too near the Holy Joes.”
“Someone once said,” Roy put in, “that the truth lies at both extremes. But never in the middle. You don’t believe that, Brown, do you?”
“I do not,” said Brown comfortably. “I should consider it was a very cranky and absurd remark.”
At last Udal said that he thought he could soon give a reply. Brown stopped him short.
“I’m not prepared to listen to a word tonight,” he said. “I’m not prepared to listen until you’ve slept on it. I’ve always regretted the occasions when I’ve spoken too soon. I don’t presume to offer advice to people like Eliot and Calvert here, but I’ve even sometimes suggested to them that they ought to sleep on it.”
Brown departed for his home in the town, and the rest of us went from his room to mine. It was dark, bare, inhospitable after Brown’s; we drew the armchairs round the fire.
Roy said to Udaclass="underline" “You’re not taking this job, are you?”
“No,” said Udal. “I don’t think I shall.”
“Less money. Much more work.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that,” said Udal, slightly nettled.
“No?” Roy’s smile was bright.
“No,” said Udal. “I don’t specialise in bogus reasons, as you know. But there are genuine ones why I should like to come. It would be pleasant” — he said with easy affection — “to be near you.”
“What for?” said Roy sharply.
“It doesn’t need much explanation.”
“It may,” said Roy. “You used to hope that you’d catch me for your faith. Isn’t that true?”
“I did hope so,” said Udal.
“If you were here, you think it might be more likely. Isn’t that true as well?”
“It had crossed my mind,” said Udal.
“You can forget it,” said Roy. “It will never happen now. It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” said Udal impassively.
“Listen, Ralph. I know now. I’ve known for some time.” Roy was speaking with absolute finality. I was reminded of that scene with Bidwell. It was as though he were driven restlessly on, cutting ties which had once been precious. Bidwell’s was a minor one; now he was marking the end of something from which he had hoped so much. He was excited, sad but excited. He had to make this dismissal to go on. He said clearly: “I shall not come your way now. I shall not believe. It’s not for me.”
Udal could not mistake the tone. He did not dissent. He said, with compassion and warmth: “I’m more sorry than I can say.”
For the first time, I saw Udal uncertain of himself, guilty, hesitating. He added: “I can’t help feeling some of this is my fault. I feel that I’ve failed you.”
Roy did not speak.
“Have I failed you?” said Udal.
Roy’s eyes, acutely bright, pierced him. Roy could have answered yes. For a second, I thought he was going to. It was at Boscastle that Roy knew without the slightest particle of doubt that Udal was no use to him — when he heard him plan his days, allow one day’s exercises for the integral knowledge of God. It was a little thing, but to Roy it meant much. It turned him away without hope from Udal’s experience, that seemed now so revoltingly “hygienic”, so facile and easy. He had once thought that Udal, never mind his frailties, had discovered how to throw away the chains of self. Now it seemed to Roy that he was unbelievably self-absorbed, content to be self-absorbed.
Roy answered gently: “No one could have made any difference. I should never have found it.”
“I hope you’re speaking the truth,” said Udal simply.
“I think I am,” said Roy.