Free The Light and the Dark by C. P. Snow Page B

We’ll look out for your name in the Reporter .”

 
     
6:   The Beginning of a Sleepless Night
     
    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