He said, the moment we were inside my sitting-room: ‘Look, I’m worried about this talk of Jago.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s bloody foolish. We can’t have him as Master. I don’t know what you can be thinking about.’
We were still standing up. A vein, always visible when he was angry, stood out in the middle of Francis’ forehead. His sunburn made him look well, on the surface; but under the eyes the skin was darkened and pouched by strain. He had been doing two men’s work for months — his own research, on the nature of the ionosphere, and his secret experiments for the Air Ministry. The secret was well kept, neither I nor anyone in the college knew any details until three years later, but he was actually busy with the origins of radar. He was tired, and overloaded with responsibility. His fundamental work had not received the attention that he looked for, and his reputation was not yet as brilliant as we had all prophesied. He was seeing some of his juniors overtake him; it was hard to bear.
Now he was throwing every effort into a new research. It had not yet started smoothly. It was an intolerable nuisance for him to come back to this trouble over the Mastership. He did not want to think about it, he was overtaxed already with the anxieties of air defence and the gnawing doubt that his new thoughts about the propagation of waves would not quite work out. Plunged into the middle of this human struggle he felt nothing but goaded irritation and impatience.
We had been friends since we first met, nearly ten years before — not intimate friends, but between us there was respect and confidence. We were about the same age: he was now thirty-four and I thirty-two. We had much the same views, and a good deal of experience in common. He had brought me to the college when I decided that I did not want to go on competing all out at the Bar. In my three years in the college, we had been allies, trusting each other, automatically on the same side in any question that mattered. This was the first time we had disagreed.
‘I don’t know what you can be thinking about,’ said Francis.
‘He’d be a goodish Master,’ I said.
‘Nonsense. Sheer bloody nonsense,’ said Francis. ‘What has he done?’
It was a harsh question, and difficult to answer. Jago was an English scholar, and had published articles on the first writings produced by the Puritan settlers in New England. The articles were sound enough: he was interesting on William Bradford’s dialogue; but it was no use pretending to Francis Getliffe.
‘I know as well as you that he’s not a specially distinguished scholar,’ I said.
‘The Master of the college must be a distinguished scholar,’ said Francis.
‘I don’t mind that as much as you,’ I said, ‘I’m not a perfectionist.’
‘What has he done?’ said Francis. ‘We can’t have a man who’s done nothing.’
‘It’s not so much what he’s done as what he is,’ I said. ‘As a human being there’s a great deal in him.’
‘I don’t see it.’
He had lost his temper, I was trying to keep mine. But I heard an edge coming into my voice.
‘I can’t begin to explain the colour red,’ I said, ‘to a man who’s colour blind. You’d better take my word for it—’
‘You get more fun out of human beings than I do,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to choose someone who gives you the maximum amount of fun. I just want a decent Master of this college.’
‘If you’re trying to secure that by cutting out all human judgement,’ I said, ‘you’ll make the most unforgivable mistake.’
Francis walked three strides, three of his long, plunging strides, to the fire and back. His steps fell heavy in the quiet room.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘how much are you committed?’
‘Completely.’
‘It’s sheer utter irresponsibility. It’s the first time I’ve seen you lose your balance. You must have gone quite mad.’
‘When I say completely,’ I said, ‘I could get out of it if there were a reason. But there won’t be one. Jago satisfies what I want better than anyone we shall find.’
‘Have you given a second’s thought to the fact that he’s an absurd conservative? Do you think this is a good time to elect conservative figureheads, when we might get a reasonable one?’
‘I don’t like that any more than you—’
‘I wish you showed more sign of not liking it in practice,’ Francis said.
‘For this particular job,’ I said, ‘I can’t believe it’s vitally important.’
‘It’s vitally important for every job where men can get into the public eye,’ said Francis. ‘You oughtn’t to need me to tell you. Things are balanced so fine that we can’t give away a point. These conservative fools are sticking out their chests and trying to behave like solid responsible men. I tell you, they’ll either let us drift lock, stock, and barrel to the Fascists; or they’ll get us into a war which we shall be bloody lucky not to lose.’
Francis spoke with a weariness of anger. He was radical, like many scientists of his generation. As he spoke, he was heavy with the responsibility that, in two or three years at most, he and his kind would have to bear. He looked so tired that, for a second, I was melted.
‘You needn’t tell me that, you know, Francis,’ I said. ‘I may be voting for Jago, but I haven’t changed altogether since we last met.’
His sudden creased smile lit up his face, and then left him stern again.
‘Whom do you want?’ I asked.
‘The obvious man. Crawford.’
‘He’s conceited. He’s shallow. He’s a third-rate man.’
‘He’s a very good scientist. That’s understating the case.’
I had never heard a contrary opinion. Some people said that Crawford was one of the best biologists alive.
Francis went on: ‘He’s got the right opinions. He isn’t afraid to utter them.’
‘He’s inconceivably self-satisfied—’
‘There aren’t many men of his standing with radical views. Anything he says, he says with authority behind him. Can’t you see that it might be useful to have a Master of a college who is willing to speak out like that?’
‘It might be very useful,’ I said. The quarrel had died down a little; I was listening to his argument. ‘It might be very useful. But that isn’t all we want him for. Think what Crawford would be like inside the college.’
I added: ‘He’d have no feeling. And no glow. And not a scrap of imagination.’
‘You claim all those things for Jago?’
‘Yes.’
‘One can’t have everything,’ said Francis.
I asked: ‘Will Crawford be a candidate?’
‘If I have anything to do with it.’
‘Have you spoken to Winslow yet?’
‘No. I count him in for Crawford. He’s got no option,’ said Francis.
Yes, I thought. Winslow had talked vaguely of going outside, he had ostentatiously mentioned no name. Those were the symptoms of one who hoped against hope that he would be asked himself: even Winslow, who knew how much he was disliked, who had been rejected flatly at the last election, still had that much hope. But everyone knew that he must run Crawford in the end.
‘I don’t see any other serious candidate,’ said Francis. He asked, suddenly and sternly: ‘Lewis, which side are you on?’
It was painful to quarrel. There was a silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t manage Crawford at any price. I see your case. But I still think this is a job where human things come first. So far as those go, I’m happy with Jago.’