by AnonYMous
I sat on the bed in my striped pyjamas. It was a relief to be out of my tight trousers. “You won’t believe this,” I said, “but I think I’ve been offered a job. They want me to come here as a Distinguished Professor. Thomas Jefferson wants to establish a Chair in honour of one of his relations. Oscar told me.”
“A job? With a salary? Did he really offer it to you just like that?”
“He asked me if I was interested. We didn’t discuss any details. But he suggested I talk it over with you. I think they really want me.”
Victoria took off the cameo necklace she had inherited from her grandmother. She put it in its Victorian leather box and locked it up. “I don’t know, Harry. They are very nice. It’s a far cry from Little Miss Bossyboots and that awful Barraclough, isn’t it? But it is far away. And Daddy wouldn’t like it. I don’t know anyone in Sweetpea.”
“You know Thomas Jefferson,” I countered.
“Yes. Thomas Jefferson. And the Billstones. And Vanessa’s cousin. And we’re going to meet Manford Wachman of Manford’s Motors,” she giggled. Then she looked thoughtful, “I don’t know … We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
The next day Manford Wachman took us for an early lunch at the Tam O’Shanter Country Club. Located outside the town, the club was exclusively for Jews. Mr Wachman picked us up in a new black Rolls; on the way he explained that in the past Jews were not allowed to be members of the Sweetpea Country Club. As a result, a group of his wealthy co-religionists had bought a derelict rambling colonial house with one hundred and thirty-six acres of land. They refurbished the property, created one of the best golf courses in the South, and built an Olympic-sized swimming pool and tennis courts. They used the adjoining lake for sailing. We parked in the parking lot which was crowded with Cadillacs, Mercedes, and Jaguars.
Like the Porpoise mansion, which it strongly resembled, the entrance was framed by Corinthian columns. In the lobby there were exotic flowering plants and marble statues of Greek gods. The dining room was lined with Scottish tartan wallpaper. We sat at a small table near the window overlooking the golf course. Again all the serving staff were black, but this time they were dressed in tartan kilts.
“Choose whatever you like,” Manford said, as he got up and went to other tables to greet friends. We were surprised to notice there was ham and shellfish on the menu. It seemed that the Jews who belonged to the Tam O’Shanter Club were not rigorous about the Old Testament dietary laws. The dining room was full of middle-aged men and women dressed in sports clothes. Some of the women were wearing short tennis skirts; children ran back and forth in swimming costume dodging the waiters. Next to us was an elderly couple; the wife, dressed in pink slacks and a pink tee-shirt, was in a wheel chair.
“Not quite the Acropolis,” Victoria commented. ‘How appalling that Jews were segregated and had to found their own club. I can’t believe it goes on still. I wonder how this establishment survives.”
Manford came back to the table with his blonde youthful-looking wife, Sherrie, who had been playing canasta. Dressed in white shorts, she was wearing white socks, and a white top with rhinestones. Her nails were exquisitely manicured and painted a deep pink. I stood up and shook hands. Victoria smiled as we were introduced. The waiter re-emerged and took everyone’s order. “I’ve heard so much about you from Manny’s brother. He’s just my favourite rabbi!” Sherrie said. “How long are you staying?”
I explained that I had come to give a lecture at the college, and we were leaving later in the day for Washington. “I know, we were there,” she said. “Manny says you’re planning to come live here.”
I looked at Victoria. Did Manford’s wife know about Oscar’s suggestion that I come to Sweetpea as a Distinguished Professor already? Manford leaned over. “Nothing in Sweetpea is a secret,” he said. “I’m one of the trustees of the college, and Thomas Jefferson has already contacted all of us this morning to suggest it. You’d like living in Sweetpea. And if you came, maybe we could do some sort of deal on the Rolls,” he winked. “Just the thing for the Professor of Christian Ethics!”
After lunch we returned to the Sweetpea Inn. I phoned Oscar at the college, and thanked him for his generous hospitality. I told him that Victoria and I had discussed the suggestion about coming to Sweetpea, but had come to no conclusion. He said he would be in touch. Mary-Lou Bradley picked us up at three and drove us to Washington. I had made a reservation at the Union Club, which had reciprocal relations with the Acropolis. We checked in and Victoria phoned the antiques editor of the Washington Post. They arranged to meet for lunch the next day at an establishment called the Lazy Daisy Club.
Our room was at the back of the building overlooking a courtyard. We were both exhausted by the events of the last few days and had a nap. At seven we went downstairs for a drink. As we walked to the bar we passed through a room lined with pictures of Pulitzer Prize winners. “Quite a show!” Victoria was amused. In the Acropolis there was a scrapbook of club members who were Nobel Prize winners, but it was not on public display. “Maybe we ought to do something like this,” I suggested. “Good grief!” Victoria sighed.
The next day after breakfast Victoria and I went to the National Gallery. There was an exhibition of paintings by Chagall. He had painted several oils of the Crucifixion, and I was curious to see them. I stayed for lunch in the gallery while Victoria had her meeting with the antiques editor. We arranged to meet for tea later in the day at the Union Club. At three I took a taxi, ordered tea, and waited for Victoria.
She came in carrying a stack of magazines looking excited. “It was wonderful,” she said putting the magazines on a chair. “The Lazy Daisy Club is charming. It’s in a narrow town house in Georgetown. Lovely Sheraton chairs and they have the most exquisite collection of Georgian teapots.”
“Who did you have lunch with?”
“A lady called Elizabeth Lizard. And you couldn’t call it having lunch. She was incredibly thin, like an X-ray. We both ordered Caesar salad, and if she ate a single mouthful, well I didn’t see it. She just pushed it around on her plate. I ate the lot. And was longing to have pudding. They advertised the most elaborate ice-creams. Sundays I think they’re called. But after Elizabeth’s performance, I felt it would be too greedy. I’m ravenous, how many of those muffins do you want to eat?”
“So what happened?”
Victoria piled both buttered muffins onto her plate. “Why don’t you order some more?” she said. “Anyway, I think I’ve been offered a job,” she continued. “They want me to do a regular column on English antique furniture and porcelain.”
“A column?”
“Well, a feature for their magazine every month. I’m to write about the major antique fairs in the States. They’re prepared to cover my costs which include plane fares and accommodation and they’ll pay two thousand dollars an article.”
“That’s tremendous,” I said. “You were right. The Porpoise millions do extend far and wide!”
“Heb Porpoise, Nid Pwrpas!” declared Victoria solemnly. “They all seem to have the impression we really are coming to live here.”
“Even Ms. Lizard the X-ray?”
“Oh yes … She knew all about it. Apparently your lecture was a great success!”
“Did you tell them nothing’s certain?”
“I wasn’t sure what to say.”
“Well, I haven’t even been formally offered a job. And we haven’t decided anything.”
“True,” said Victoria, “And I can’t imagine how I would break the news to Daddy.”
In the evening we set off for London, arrived the next morning, and then took the train back to St Sebastian’s. I didn’t sleep much that night and the next day I was jet-lagged. I went to the college earlier than usual, collected my post, and retreated to my office. I had left behind a massive PhD thesis which I should have read weeks ago. It was entitled Metanoia in the text of the Synoptic Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles. It had been supervised by Pilkington, and I had agreed to
be the internal examiner. Presumably as an expert on Christian ethics, I was supposed to know something about repentance.
I stretched out on the sofa, made a cup of coffee, picked up the thesis and immediately went to sleep. A couple of hours later I woke up. I made another cup of coffee, blacker and stronger this time, and turned over a few pages. I scanned through the thesis. There was no Greek at all in the text. How, I wondered, could the candidate write a scholarly thesis on the concept of ‘metanoia’ without using any Greek?
At that moment the telephone rang. It was my fellow-examiner. Professor Timothy Titus was a Professor of Biblical Exegesis at the University of Blenheim and the current President of the Association of New Testament Scholars. We had been ordained from the same theological college at Cambridge and occasionally we met at conferences. He said he had been desperate to reach me. I explained I had been giving a lecture in Sweetpea, Virginia.
“I can’t understand this thesis,” he said. “Despite the title, it’s clear he has no idea of the Greek text. He’s missed numerous references to metanoia and some of what he says only makes sense if you are reading the English translation. Sometimes he even talks about repentance when a Greek word other than metanoia is being used. It’s nonsense once you look at the original text. I don’t know what his supervisor was thinking of. Presumably your university demands a knowledge of Greek if candidates intend to write a thesis on the New Testament?”
I explained that biblical studies was not my area, but that I was sure we did. Anyway I would check what was going on with the supervisor. Later in the day I phoned Pilkington. I told him that I had just returned from the States and that I was reading his candidate’s PhD thesis. Both the external examiner and I were concerned that the candidate seemed to have no knowledge of Greek.
“But that can’t be right,” I insisted. “Timothy Titus wants to know if we demand a knowledge of Greek for students writing theses on the New Testament text and of course I said we had the same standards as everyone else.”
There was silence. “You discussed this with Titus?” he asked angrily.
“Of course I did. We’re the two examiners of the thesis.”
“Look, Harry, I don’t care about that. It is imprudent to discuss university policy with outsiders.”
“What are you talking about John? What university policy?”
“It’s none of Titus’s business what we demand or do not demand from our students. That’s our affair. You’re the internal examiner. Your job is to make sure that our candidates get through.”
“Wait a minute, John,” I said. “The role of the internal examiner is to make a scholarly judgement about the thesis. That’s what the regulations state.”
“I don’t care what the regulations state. You’re there to make sure external examiners aren’t too harsh. You’re to be a moderating influence. You shouldn’t stir things up. I suppose you brought up the subject of Greek.”
“No. As a matter of fact, he did. But I was equally concerned about it. We were both worried …”
“Look, Harry,” Pilkington interrupted. “I bitterly resent this. Your prime responsibility is to the university. And to your colleagues for that matter.”
“My chief obligation is to scholarship by examining the thesis properly,” I said angrily.
“Not as far as I’m concerned. As a matter of fact, this candidate is dyslexic. It was unrealistic to expect him to learn Greek. And, as an employee of the university, which pays your salary, you must do the very best you can for him.”
“But you can’t write a PhD on the text of the New Testament if you can’t read the text …” I was aghast.
“Don’t be naive, Harry. The university needs the money from postgraduate students and it is our duty to see them through.”
“But you can’t write a thesis on metanoia in the Greek text if you can’t read the Greek. It’s nonsense and he’s made loads of mistakes. The word ‘repentance’ in the English translation is not always a translation of the word metanoia, and he doesn’t seem to realize that. I don’t know why you, as the supervisor, didn’t pick it up.”
Pilkington was furious. “Perhaps if you contributed a little more to the administration of the university, I might have more time to give to my research students.”
I wasn’t in the mood for a fight. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Well, it’s your job to sort the matter out and keep Titus quiet. Make a list of all the mistakes. Then the candidate can correct them, resubmit the thesis and get the degree.”
“This is ridiculous. You mean we have no standards at all?”
“Of course we have standards. But we also have responsibilities towards the university and our colleagues. The university will go bankrupt if you go on like this.”
The next day I received an email from Pilkington. It had been sent to everyone in the department. It read:
Dear Colleagues,
It has come to my attention that there is some uncertainty about the role of internal examiners of PhD theses. I want to clarify the university’s view. As you know, the department is dependent financially on the successful recruitment of postgraduate students. It is vitally important that we appear to have a flourishing research culture. Increasingly a university is being judged on its MA and PhD completion figures and success rates. In this light, the internal examiner should do everything possible to help our candidates. When writing his or her report, the role of the internal examiner is to present the thesis in the best possible light and to direct the external examiner away from any defects. Under no circumstances should the internal examiner write anything which can in any way be interpreted as a criticism of the thesis supervisor.
John Pilkington,
Head of Department
After reading this missive, I phoned Magnus. “Did you see Pilkington’s email?” I asked.
“He’s a complete crook. I always knew it,” Magnus said.
I explained about my conversation with Pilkington the previous day. “Look, Harry,” Magnus said, “I know all about this. I was supposed to be the supervisor four years ago. But the student is mentally defective …”
“I think he’s dyslexic,” I interrupted.
“That’s what I said,” retorted Magnus, “mentally defective. He refused to learn Greek. How can you claim to have a PhD on the Greek New Testament when you can’t even read the language? I told Pilkington to get stuffed.”
“Well, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about this.”
“If you want my advice, you’ll pack your bags like me.”
“It seems to me that PhD degrees are no longer worth the paper they’re written on. Presumably, they’ll soon be scores of people walking around with doctorates who can’t even read the text they’re supposed to be experts on.”
“It’s the same everywhere.” For once, Magnus spoke seriously. He sounded weary. “All the universities are desperate for PhD money. No one under the age of fifty has learned the ancient languages properly. You and I have been learning Latin and Greek since we were eight. We were put down to it when we first went off to prep school. But it’s all different now. Nowadays it’s all sex education and self-expression in the schools. As a result the children can’t even read and write English correctly, let alone Latin or Greek. What it comes down to is the English education system’s shot to shit!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Judgement was Reached In an Open and Transparent Manner
The summer term began in late April. I had just received an advanced copy of my new book. The publishers had sent out press releases, and my editor told me that she had been contacted by the BBC. I was to appear on Start the Week on Radio 4. On Wednesday the producer phoned to discuss my views. After a lengthy conversation, she told me that I would need to be at the studio at 8:30 a.m. to meet the other guests – a leading conductor and a well-known playwright. The interview was arranged for next Monday. I told the publicity officer of St Sebastian’s
about the programme. When I turned on my computer, the university homepage included a notice about the interview and a description of my new book.
Later in the afternoon I went up to the Senior Common Room. Magnus was seated in the corner reading The Times. I ordered a cup of tea, resisted a flapjack and joined him. I saw Pilkington and Wendy Morehouse at another table; Pilkington glanced at me and said something to Wendy. “How’s the dancing?” I asked Magnus.
He looked up and grinned. “Well, well, the radio star has emerged.”
“Very funny, Magnus.”
“Won’t make you popular, you know.”
I showed Magnus my new book. He flipped through the contents page and read the blurb on the back. “Paradox of Selfishness?” he asked.
“The point is that by looking out for oneself, one can in fact be altruistic. That’s the paradox. Of course it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
Magnus looked unconvinced. “Selfishness is selfishness,” he said. “Can’t see what you’re talking about. Think you’re in a bit of a muddle, old chap.” He bit into his flapjack with enthusiasm. It looked delicious. Arguably by being selfish and eating it, he was supporting the factory which made it, was thereby helping the British economy and thus contributing to the social welfare of society. I wasn’t sure I was convinced.
Agnes approached us carrying a cup of coffee. “Can I join you?” she asked. “Nice announcement on the web, Harry,” she said. “May I look at the book?” I passed it to her.
Magnus was absorbed in the Court Circular Page. “Bugger!” he said. “Look at this!” He handed me the newspaper. “I had no idea Anthony Leopold was still alive. Or at least was until last week.” There was a long article about Professor Anthony Leopold, FBA. “We went to the same prep school. He was a sneaky little shit. Raided my tuckbox and stole my aunt’s biscuits. I heard he had a double by-pass operation. Thought he’d popped off years ago.”
Agnes looked horrified. “Really, Magnus. How can you say such things?”
