horrible next term was going to be. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel more and more positively that there wasn't going to be a next term as far as he was concerned. Not a University term, anyway.
He fingered his chin again. He'd better shave before he did anything else. After that he'd run up and see if Atkinson was in. His company, and perhaps some of his whisky, were just what Dixon felt he could do with before starting the evening.
XXI
'I HOPE it isn't too painful, Dixon,' the Principal said.
Dixon's hand went up involuntarily to his black eye. 'Oh no, sir,' he replied in a light tone.' I'm surprised it's come up at all, really. It was quite a light knock; didn't even break the skin.'
'On the corner of the wash-hand basin, you said?' another voice asked.
'That's right, Mr Gore-Urquhart. One of these silly things one does occasionally. I dropped my razor, bent down for it, and - bang; there I was reeling about like a heavyweight.'
Gore-Urquhart nodded slowly. 'Most unfortunate,' he said. He looked Dixon up and down from under his heavy brow, and his lips twitched into a pout and back again two or three times. 'If I'd been asked, now,' he went on, 'I'd have said he'd got himself into a fight, eh, Principal?'
The Principal, a small ventricose man with a polished, rosy bald head, gave one of his laughs. These strongly recalled the peals of horrid mirth so often audible in films about murders in castles, and had been known, in the Principal's first few weeks at the College just after the war, to silence the conversations of an entire Common Room. Now, however, nobody even turned his head, and only Gore-Urquhart looked a little uneasy.
The fourth member of the quartet spoke up. 'Well, I hope it won't interfere with your reading from your… from your…' he said.
'Oh no, Professor,' Dixon said. 'I guarantee I could read that script blindfold, I've been through it so many times.'
Welch nodded. 'It's a good plan,' he said. 'I remember when I first began lecturing, I was silly enough just to write the stuff down and not bother about…'
'Have you got anything new to tell us, Dixon?' the Principal asked.
'New, sir? Well, in this sort of…'
'I mean it's a subject that's been fairly well worked over, isn't it? I don't know whether it's possible to get a new slant on it these days, but personally I should have thought…'
Welch thrust in with 'It's hardly a question, sir, of…'
A remarkable duet ensued, the Principal and Welch both going on talking without pause, the one raising his voice in pitch, the other in volume, giving between them the impression of some ambitious verse-speaking effect. Dixon found that he and Gore-Urquhart were staring at each other, while the room began to grow quiet except for the voices of the two contestants. Finally the Principal broke free, and, like an orchestra that has launched a soloist on his cadenza, Welch abruptly fell silent. 'Worth restating in every generation or not,' the Principal concluded.
There now appeared a diversion in the shape of the porter Maconochie with a tray of glasses of sherry. Dixon willed his hand to stay at his side until his three seniors had helped themselves, then let it bear the fullest remaining glass to his lips. The Registrar, who controlled the liquor supply on such occasions, was notorious for cutting it off altogether after the first couple of rounds, except from the Principal and whoever might be talking to him. Dixon knew he couldn't hope to stay in this group much longer and was determined to make the most of it. He felt slightly ill in an indefinable way, but swallowed half his new glassful at one go; it slid warmly down to join the previous three sherries and the half-dozen measures of Bill Atkinson's whisky. In a sense, but only in a sense, he was beginning not to worry about the lecture, which was to start in twenty minutes' time, at six-thirty.
He looked round the crowded Common Room, which seemed to contain everybody he knew or had ever known, apart from his parents. Mrs Welch was a few feet away talking to Johns, for whose presence in this room, normally inadmissible, she must be in some indirect way to blame. Beyond them were Bertrand and Christine, not saying a great deal to each other. Right over by the window Barclay, the Music Professor, was talking earnestly to the Professor of English, no doubt urging on him the necessity of voting for Dixon's removal when the College Council met at the end of the following week. In the other direction the Goldsmiths were laughing at something Beesley had said to them. Elsewhere were figures Dixon barely recognized: economists, medicals, geographers, social scientists, lawyers, engineers, mathematicians, philosophers, readers in Germanic and comparative philology, lektors, lecteurs, lectrices. He felt like going round and notifying each person individually of his preference that they should leave. There were several he'd never seen in his life before, who might be anything from Emeritus Professors of Egyptology to interior decorators waiting to start measuring up for new carpets. One large group was made up of local worthies: a couple of aldermen with their wives, a fashionable clergyman, a knighted physician, all of whom were members of the College Council, and at the edge of the group, Dixon saw with a start, the local composer he'd seen at Welch's arty week-end. He looked round distractedly, but in vain, for the amateur violinist.
After a moment the Principal moved over to the local worthies and addressed some remark to the fashionable clergyman that was received with general laughter, except by the knighted physician, who stared coldly from face to face. Almost at the same time a signal from Mrs Welch drew Welch away and left Dixon with Gore-Urquhart, who now said: 'How long have you been in this game, then, Dixon?'
'Getting on for nine months now. They took me on last autumn.'
'I've a notion you're not too happy in it; am I right?'
'Yes, I think you are right, on the whole.'
'Where's the trouble? In you or in it?'
'Oh, both, I should say. They waste my time and I waste theirs.'
'Mm, I see. It's a waste of time teaching history, is it?'
Dixon resolved not to mind what he said to this man. 'No. Well taught and sensibly taught, history could do people a hell of a lot of good. But in practice it doesn't work out like that. Things get in the way. I don't quite see who's to blame for it. Bad teaching's the main thing. Not bad students, I mean.'
Gore-Urquhart nodded, then shot a quick glance at him. 'This lecture of yours tonight, now. Whose idea was it?'
'Professor Welch's. I could hardly refuse, of course. If it goes well it'll improve my standing here.'
'You're ambitious?'
'No. I've done badly here since I got the job. This lecture might help to save me getting the sack.'
'Here, laddie,' Gore-Urquhart said, and snatched two glasses of sherry from Maconochie's tray as he went towards the group that now included the Principal. Dixon thought perhaps he oughtn't to drink any more - he was already beginning to feel a little splendid - but took the glass that was held out to him and drank from it. 'Why have you come here tonight?' he asked.
'I've evaded your Principal so many times recently that I felt I had to come to this.'
'I can't see why you bother, you know. You're not dependent on the Principal. You're only letting yourself in for a lot of boredom.'
When Gore-Urquhart looked at him again, Dixon had a moment's trouble disposing of a slight spin of the head, caused by the other's out-of-focus face. 'I let myself in for several hours' boredom every day, Dixon. A couple more won't break my back.'
'Why do you stand it?'
'I want to influence people so they'll do what I think it's important they should do. I can't get 'em to do that unless I let 'em bore me first, you understand. Then just as they're delighting in having got me punch-drunk with talk I come back at 'em and make 'em do what I've got lined up for 'em.'
'I wish I could do that,' Dixon said enviously. 'When I'm punch-drunk with talk, which is what I am most of the time, that's when they come at me and make me do what they want me to do.' Apprehension and drink combined to break through another bulkhead in his mind and he went on eagerly: 'I'm the boredom-detector. I'm a finely-tuned instrument. If only I could get hold of a millionaire I'd be worth a bag of money to him. He could send
