‘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 promise or achievement, mostly academic, from home and abroad, with a sprinkling of men who have made their mark in other fields. The college has no undergraduates, and generally appears to the outside world to do much as it pleases with its massive financial and intellectual resources.’
Stephen and Harvey took their places among the hundred or more guests at the long table in the noble Codrington Library. Stephen spent the entire time insuring that Harvey was kept fully occupied and was not too obvious. He was thankfully aware that on such occasions people never remember whom they meet or what they say, and happily introduced Harvey to everyone around as a distinguished American philanthropist. He was fortunately placed some way from the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest.
Harvey was quite overcome by the new experience and was content just to listen to the distinguished men around him — which surprised Stephen, who had feared he would never stop talking. When the meal was over and the guests had risen, Stephen drew a deep breath and played one of his riskier cards. He deliberately marched Harvey up to the Chancellor.
‘Chancellor,’ he said to Harold Macmillan.
‘Yes, young man.’
‘May I introduce Mr Harvey Metcalfe from Boston. Mr Metcalfe, as you will know, Chancellor, is a great benefactor of Harvard.’
‘Yes, of course. Capital, capital. What brings you to England, Mr Metcalfe?’
Harvey was nearly speechless.
‘Well, sir, I mean Chancellor, I came to see my horse Rosalie run in the King George and Elizabeth Stakes.’
Stephen was now standing behind Harvey and made signs to the Chancellor that Harvey’s horse had won the race. Harold Macmillan, as game as ever and never one to miss a trick, replied:
‘Well, you must have been very pleased with the result, Mr Metcalfe.’
‘Well, sir, I guess I was lucky.’
‘You don’t look to me the type of man who depends on luck.’
Stephen took his career firmly in both hands.
‘I am trying to interest Mr Metcalfe in supporting some research we are doing at Oxford, Chancellor.’
‘What a good idea.’ No one knew better than Harold Macmillan, after seven years of leading a political party, how to use flattery on such occasions. ‘Keep in touch, young man. Boston was it, Mr Metcalfe? Do give my regards to the Kennedys.’
Macmillan swept off, resplendent in his academic dress. Harvey stood dumbfounded.
‘What a great man. What an occasion. I feel I’m part of history. I just wish I deserved to be here.’
Having completed his task, Stephen was determined to escape before any mistakes could be made. He knew Harold Macmillan would shake hands with and talk to over a thousand people that day and the chances of his remembering Harvey were minimal. In any case, it would not much matter if he did. Harvey was, after all, a genuine benefactor of Harvard.
‘We ought to leave before the senior members, Mr Metcalfe.’
‘Of course, Rod. You’re the boss.’
‘I think that would be courtesy.’
Once they were out on the street Harvey glanced at his large Jaeger le Coultre watch. It was 2.30 pm
‘Excellent,’ said Stephen, who was running three minutes late for the next rendezvous. ‘We have just over an hour before the Garden Party. Why don’t we take a look at one or two of the colleges.’
They walked slowly up past Brasenose College and Stephen explained that the name really meant ‘brass nose’ and that the famous original brass nose, a sanctuary knocker of the thirteenth century, was still mounted in the hall. A hundred yards further on, Stephen directed Harvey to the right.
‘He’s turned right, Robin, and he’s heading toward Lincoln College,’ said James, well hidden in the entrance of Jesus College.
‘Fine,’ said Robin and checked his two sons. Aged seven and nine, they stood awkwardly, in unfamiliar Eton suits, ready to play their part as pages, unable to understand what Daddy was up to.
‘Are you both ready?’
‘Yes, Daddy,’ they replied in unison.
Stephen continued walking slowly toward Lincoln, and they were no more than a few paces away when Robin appeared from the main entrance of the college in the official dress of the Vice-Chancellor, bands, collar, white tie and all. He looked fifteen years older and as much like Mr Habakkuk as possible. Perhaps not quite so bald, thought Stephen.