The lights shone down on the red cloth. In the silence, one noticed more than ever the smell of the chapel — earthy, odorous from wood, wax, fusty books. Along with that smell, which never varied, came a new concomitant, a faint but persistent tincture of pomade. It must have been due, I thought, to old Gay’s barber.
The bell still clanged. Ten o’clock had not yet struck. There were three empty places at the table. One was on my left, where Luke had not yet come. There was another between Despard-Smith and Brown, and a third between Winslow and Chrystal. Then Jago walked in, slowly, not looking at any of us. He stared at the table, took in the empty places. He saw where his must be. He took the chair between Winslow and Chrystal. No words were spoken, he made no indication of a greeting: but Brown, opposite to him, gave a slight kind smile.
Luke came to his place, and we were still quiet. The bell gave its last peaclass="underline" the chimes often were quivering above the chapeclass="underline" Crawford moved, swiftly but without heat or fuss, to the last seat.
‘I apologize if I’m late, Senior Fellow,’ he said equably. They were the first words spoken since I went in.
The last stroke often had sounded, and there was no whisper in the chapel. Gay sat upright, looking down the table; Pilbrow and Despard-Smith faced each other: Winslow and Crawford: Jago and Brown: Chrystal and Nightingale: Getliffe and me: Roy Calvert and Luke. In front of each of us, on the crimson cloth, was a copy of the statutes, a slip of paper, and a pen. Down the middle of the table ran a series of four silver inkstands — one for Gay alone, one for each group of four.
Gay climbed to his feet.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I propose to carry out the duties conferred on me by our statutes.’ He began at once to read from his leather-covered copy. “At ten o’clock in the morning of the appointed day the Fellows shall assemble in the chapel, and of the fellows then present that one who is first in order of precedence shall preside. He shall first read aloud—”’ Gay looked up from the book. ‘This is the appointed day, there’s no doubt about that. And I am the fellow first in order of precedence. Now is the time to do my duty.’
In his strong and sonorous voice he read on. The words echoed in the chapel; everyone sat still while the seconds ticked past; I kept my eyes from Jago’s face. The quarter struck, and Gay was still reading.
At last he finished.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that’s well done. Now I call upon you to stand and make your declarations.’
Gay vigorously recited: ‘I, Maurice Harvey Laurence Gay, do hereby declare that I have full knowledge of the statutes just read and will solemnly observe them. I do also hereby declare that without thought of gain or loss or worldly considerations whatsoever I will now choose as Master that man who in my belief will best maintain and increase the well-being and glory of the college. I vow this in sincerity and truth.’
In the ordinary elections, of a scholar or a fellow, it was the practice for each of us to repeat in turn the seven words of the promise. But now we heard Eustace Pilbrow go through the whole declaration, and Despard-Smith after him.
Despard-Smith’s voice died away.
Winslow thrust out his underlip, and said: ‘I vow this in sincerity and truth.’
Despard-Smith immediately whispered in Gay’s ear. Gay said: ‘The senior fellows consider that everyone should read the whole declaration.’
‘Am I bound by the decision of the senior fellows?’ said Winslow.
‘We mustn’t leave anything to doubt. No indeed,’ said Gay. ‘I have to ask you to comply. Then everyone else, right down the line. That’s the proper way.’
‘I do it under protest, Senior Fellow,’ said Winslow sullenly, and read the declaration in a fast monotone.
When it came to Jago’s turn, I felt the strain tighten among us as we stood. His voice was muffled but controlled. When he ended his promise, he threw back his head. His shoulder was almost touching Chrystal’s.
The declarations passed across the table, came to the young men. At last Luke had completed his: we all stayed on our feet.
‘Is that everyone?’ said Gay. ‘I want to be assured that everyone has made his declaration according to the statutes. That’s well done again. Now we may sit down and write our votes.’
For some minutes — perhaps it was not so long — there was only the sound of the scratch of pens on paper. I noticed Chrystal, who was using his fountain pen, push towards Jago the inkstand that stood for them both to use. Someone higher up the table was crossing out a word. I finished and looked at Francis Getliffe, directly opposite: he gave me a grim smile. Several people were still staring down at their slips. Gay was writing away.
He was the last to look up. ‘Ah. All ready? Pray read over your votes,’ he said.
Then he called out: ‘I will now request the junior fellow to collect your votes and deliver them to me. I shall then read them aloud, as prescribed in the statutes. I request the two next senior fellows to make a record of the votes as I announce them. Yes, that’s the work for them to do.’
Pilbrow and Despard-Smith sat with paper in front of them. Young Luke walked down the nave, arranging the votes in order, so that they could be read from the juniors upwards.
‘Well done,’ said Gay, when Luke placed the little pile in his hand. ‘Well done.’
He waited until Luke was once more in his seat.
‘Now is the time to read the votes,’ Gay announced. Once more he clutched the table and got to his feet. He held the slips at arm’s length, in order to focus his faded, long-sighted eyes. He recited, in the clearest and most robust of tones: ‘Here they are.’
‘“I, Walter John Luke, vote for Dr Paul Jago.”
‘“I, Roy Clement Edward Calvert, elect Paul Jago.”
My vote for Jago. There was no fixed form of voting, though Roy’s was supposed to be the most correct. It struck me irrelevantly how one heard Christian names that one had scarcely known.
‘“I, Francis Ernest Getliffe, elect Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford.”
‘“Ronald Edmund Nightingale votes for Dr Crawford.”
‘“Charles Percy Chrystal elects Dr Thomas Crawford.”’
As Gay’s voice rang out with Chrystal’s vote, there was a quiver at the table. There may have been some, I thought, to whom it was a shock. Had the news reached everyone by ten o’clock?
‘“I, Arthur Brown, elect Paul Jago.”
I waited anxiously for the next.
‘“I, Paul Jago, elect Thomas Crawford.”
‘“Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford chooses Paul Jago.”
‘“Mr Winslow elects Dr Crawford, and signs his name as Godfrey Harold Winslow.”
‘“Albert Theophilus Despard-Smith elects Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford.”
‘“I, Eustace Pilbrow, elect Redvers Thomas Arbuthnot Crawford.”’
Someone said: ‘That’s a majority.’
There was still Gay’s own vote to come.
Gay read with doubled richness: ‘“I, Maurice Harvey Laurence Gay, Senior Fellow of the college and emeritus professor in the university, after having performed my duties as Senior Fellow in accordance with the statutes and heard the declarations of the fellows duly assembled in chapel, do hereby cast my vote for Paul Jago as Master of the college.”’
There was a movement, either of relaxation or surprise. I caught Roy Calvert’s eye.
‘There we are,’ said Gay. ‘There are the votes. Have you counted them?’
‘Yes,’ said Despard-Smith.
‘Mind you count them carefully,’ said Gay. ‘We mustn’t make a mistake at the last.’
‘Seven votes for Dr Crawford,’ said Despard-Smith bleakly, ‘Six for Dr Jago. Seven votes make a clear majority of the college, and Dr Crawford is elected.’