Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  “Jesus, of course it’s safe. This isn’t Central Park, New York.”

  “I agree,” said Stephen, “but it hasn’t always been so over the past three hundred years, and tradition dies hard in England.”

  “And who’s that behind the Bedel fellows?”

  “The one wearing the black gown with gold trimmings is the Chancellor of the university, accompanied by his page. The Chancellor is the Right Honourable Harold Macmillan, who was Prime Minister of Great Britain in the late ’50’s and early ’60’s.”

  “Oh yes, I remember the guy. Tried to get the British into Europe but De Gaulle wouldn’t have it.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way of remembering him. Now, he’s followed by the Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Habakkuk, who is also the Principal of Jesus College.”

  “You’re losing me, Professor.”

  “Well, the Chancellor is always a distinguished Englishman who was educated at Oxford; but the Vice-Chancellor is a leading member of the university itself and is usually chosen from the heads of one of the colleges.”

  “Got it, I think.”

  “Now, after him, we have the University Registrar, Mr. Caston, who is a fellow of Merton College. He is the senior administrator of the university, or you might look on him as the university’s top civil servant. He’s directly responsible to the Vice-Chancellor and Hebdomadal Council, who are the sort of cabinet for the university. Behind them we have the Senior Proctor, Mr. Campbell of Worcester College, and the Junior Proctor, the Reverend Doctor Bennett of New College.”

  “What’s a Proctor?”

  “For over 700 years the Proctors have been responsible for decency and discipline in the university.”

  “What? Those two old men take care of 9,000 rowdy youths?”

  “Well, they are helped by the bulldogs,” said Stephen.

  “Ah, that’s better, I suppose. A couple of bites from an old English bulldog would keep anyone in order.”

  “No, no,” protested Stephen, trying desperately not to laugh. “The name bulldog is given to the men who help the Proctors keep order. Now, finally in the procession you can observe that tiny crocodile of color: it consists of heads of colleges who are Doctors of the university, Doctors of the university who are not heads of colleges and the heads of colleges who are not Doctors of the university, in that order.”

  “Listen, Rod, all doctors mean to me is pain and money.”

  “They are not that sort of doctor,” replied Stephen.

  “Forget it. I love everything but don’t expect me to understand what it’s all about.”

  Stephen watched Harvey’s face carefully. He was drinking the scene in and had already become quieter.

  “The long line will now proceed into the Sheldonian Theater and all the people in the procession will take their places in the hemicycle.”

  “Excuse me, sir, what type of cycle is that?”

  “The hemicycle is a round bank of seats inside the theater, distinguished only by being the most uncomfortable in Europe. But don’t you worry. Thanks to your well-known interest in education at Harvard I’ve managed to arrange special seats for us and there will just be time for us to secure them ahead of the procession.”

  “Well, lead the way, Rod. Do they really know what goes on at Harvard here?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Metcalfe. You have a reputation in university circles as a generous man interested in financing the pursuit of academic excellence.”

  “Well, what do you know.”

  Very little, thought Stephen.

  He guided Harvey to his reserved seat in the balcony, not wanting his guest to be able to see the individual men and women too clearly. The truth of the matter was that the senior members of the university in the hemicycle were so covered from head to toe in gowns and caps and bow ties and bands, that even their mothers would not have recognized them. The organist played his final chord and the guests settled.

  “The organist,” said Stephen, “is from my own college. He’s the Choragus, the leader of the chorus, and Deputy Professor of Music.”

  Harvey could not take his eyes off the hemicycle and the scarlet-clad figures. He had never seen a sight like it in his life. The music stopped and the Chancellor rose to address the assembled company in vernacular Latin.

  “Causa hujus convocations est ut…”

  “What the hell’s he saying?”

  “He’s telling us why we’re here,” explained Stephen. “I’ll try and guide you through it.”

  “Ite Bedelli,” declared the Chancellor, and the great doors opened for the Bedels to go and fetch the Honorands from the Divinity School. There was a hush as they were led in by the Public Orator, Mr. J. G. Griffith, who presented them one by one to the Chancellor, enshrining the careers and achievements of each in polished and witty Latin prose.

  Stephen’s translation, however, followed a rather more liberal line and was embellished with suggestions that their doctorates were as much the result of financial generosity as of academic prowess.

  “That’s Lord Amory. They’re praising him for all the work he has done in the field of education.”

  “How much did he give?”

  “Well, he was Chancellor of the Exchequer. And there’s Lord Hailsham. He has held eight Cabinet positions, including Secretary of State for Education and finally Lord Chancellor. Both he and Lord Amory are receiving the degree of Doctor of Civil Law.”

  Harvey recognized Dame Flora Robson, the actress, who was being honored for a distinguished lifetime in the theater; Stephen explained that she was receiving the degree of Doctor of Letters, as was the Poet Laureate, Sir John Betjeman. Each was presented with his scroll by the Chancellor, shaken by the hand and then shown to a seat in the front row of the hemicycle.

  The final Honorand was Sir George Porter, Director of the Royal Institution and Nobel Laureate. He received his honorary degree of Doctor of Science.

  “My namesake, but no relation. Oh well, nearly through,” said Stephen. “Just a little prose from John Wain, the Professor of Poetry, about the benefactors of the university.”

  Mr. Wain delivered the Crewian Oration, which took him some twelve minutes, and Stephen was grateful for something so lively in a language they could both understand. He was only vaguely aware of the recitations of undergraduate prize winners which concluded the proceedings.

  The Chancellor of the university rose and led the procession out of the hall.

  “Where are they all off to now?” asked Harvey.

  “They are going to have lunch at All Souls, where they will be joined by other distinguished guests.”

  “God, what I would give to be able to attend that.”

  “I have arranged it,” replied Stephen.

  Harvey was quite overwhelmed.

  “How did you fix that, Professor?”

  “The Registrar was most impressed by the interest you have shown in Harvard and I think they hope you might find it possible to assist Oxford in some small way, especially after your wonderful win at Ascot.”

  “What a great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Stephen tried to show little interest, hoping that by the end of the day he would have thought of it. He had learned his lesson on overkill. The truth was that the Registrar had never heard of Harvey Metcalfe, but because it was Stephen’s last term at Oxford he had been put on the list of invitations by a friend who was a Fellow of All Souls.

  They walked over to All Souls, just across the road from the Sheldonian Theatre. Stephen attempted, without much success, to explain the nature of All Souls to Harvey. Indeed, many Oxonians themselves find the college something of an enigma.

  “Its corporate name,” Stephen began, “is the College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed of Oxford, and it resonantly commemorates the victors of Agincourt. It was intended that masses should forever be said there for the repose of their souls. Its modern role is unique in academic life. All Souls is a society of graduates distinguished either by p