“It would appear to me,” said the Dean, “that we have already dispensed with such formalities as we are used to. I can see no virtue in ridding ourselves of the few that are left.”
The Master regarded him closely. “Bear with me. Dean,” he said, aware that he was relapsing from his carefully rehearsed down-to-earth manner into the vernacular of academic bitchiness. He pulled himself up. “I have called this meeting,” he continued with a nasty smile, “to discuss in detail the changes in the College I mentioned in my speech on Tuesday night. I shan’t keep you long. When I have finished you can go away and think about my suggestions.” A ripple of indignation at the effrontery of his remark ran round the table. The Dean in particular lost his cool.
“The Master seems to be under some misapprehension as to the purpose of the College Council,” he said. “May I remind him that it is the governing body of the College. We have been summoned here this afternoon at short notice and we have come at considerable inconvenience to ourselves…” The Master yawned. “Quite so. Quite so,” he murmured. The Dean’s face turned a deeper shade of puce. A virtuoso in the art of the discourteous aside, he had never been subjected to such disrespect.
“I think,” said the Senior Tutor stepping into the breach, “that it should be left to the Council to decide whether or not the Master’s proposals merit discussion this afternoon.” He smiled unctuously at the Master.
“As you wish,” said Sir Godber. He looked at his watch. “I shall be here until three. If after that you have things you wish to discuss, you will have to do so without me.” He paused. “We can meet again tomorrow or the next day. I shall be available in the afternoon.”
He looked down the table at the suffused faces of the Fellows and felt satisfied. The atmosphere was just what he had wanted for the announcement of his plans. They would react predictably and with a violence that would disarm them. Then when it would appear to be all over he would nullify all their protests with a threat. It was a charming prospect made all the more pleasing by the knowledge that they would misinterpret his motives. They would, they would. Obtuse men, small men for whom Porterhouse was the world and Cambridge the universe. Sir Godber despised them, and it showed.
“If we are all agreed then,” he continued, ignoring the tittubation of the Dean who had been nerving himself to protest at the Master’s incivility and leave the meeting, “let me outline the changes I have in mind. In the first place, as you are all aware. Porterhouse’s reputation has declined sadly since… I believe the rot set in in 1933. I have been told there was a poor intake of Fellows in that year. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
It was the turn of the Senior Tutor to stiffen in his seat. 1933 had been the year of his election.
“Academically our decline seems to have set in then. The quality of our undergraduates has always seemed to me to be quite deplorable. I intend to change all that. From now on, from this year of Grace, we shall accept candidates who possess academic qualifications alone.” He paused to allow the information to sink in. When the Bursar ceased twitching in his chair, he continued. “That is my first point. The second is to announce that the College will become a coeducational institution from the beginning of the forthcoming academic year. Yes, gentlemen, from the beginning of next year there will be women living in Porterhouse.” A gasp, almost a belch of shock, broke from the Fellows. The Dean buried his face in his hands and the Senior Tutor put both his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself. Only the Chaplain spoke.
“I heard that,” he bellowed, his face radiant as if with divine revelation, “I heard it. Splendid news. Not before time either.” He relapsed into silence. The Master beamed. “I accept your approval, Chaplain,” he said, “with thanks. It is good to know that I have support from such an unexpected quarter. Thirdly…”
“I protest,” shouted the Senior Tutor, half rising to his feet. Sir Godber cut him short.
“Later,” he snapped and the Senior Tutor dropped back into his seat. “Thirdly, the practice of dining in Hall will be abandoned. A self-service canteen run by an outside catering firm will be established in the Hall. There will be no High Table. All forms of academic segregation will disappear. Yes, Dean…?”
But the Dean was speechless. His face livid and congested he had started to protest only to slump in his chair. The Senior Tutor hurried to his side while the Chaplain, always alert to the possibilities provided by a stricken audience, bellowed words of comfort into the insensible Dean’s ear. Only the Master remained unmoved.
“Not, I trust, another Porterhouse Blue,” he said audibly to the Bursar, and looked at his watch, with calculated unconcern. To the Dean Sir Godber’s manifest lack of interest in his demise came as a stimulant. His face grew pale and his breathing less sibilant. He opened his eyes and stared with loathing down the table at the Master.
“As I was saying,” continued Sir Godber, picking up the threads of his speech, “the measures I have proposed will transform Porterhouse at a stroke.” He paused and smiled at the appositeness of the phrase. The Fellows stared at this fresh evidence of gaucherie. Even the Chaplain, imbued with the spirit of goodwill and deaf to the world’s wickedness, was appalled by the Master’s sang-froid.
“Porterhouse will regain its rightful place in the forefront of colleges,” the Master went on in a manner now recognizably political. “No longer will we stumble on hamstrung by the obsolescence of outmoded tradition and class prejudice, by the limitations of the past and the cynicism of the present, but inspired by confidence in the future we shall prove ourselves worthy of the great trust that has been bequeathed us.” He sat down, inspired by his own brief eloquence. It was clear that nobody else present shared his enthusiasm for the future. When at last someone spoke it was the Bursar.
“There do appear to be one or two problems involved in this… er… transformation,” he pointed out. “Not insuperable, I daresay, but nevertheless worth mentioning before we all become too enthusiastic”
The Master surfaced from his reverie. “Such as?” he said shortly.
The Bursar pursed his lips. “Quite apart from the foreseeable difficulties of getting this… er… legislation accepted by the Council, I use the term advisedly you understand, there is the question of finance to consider. We are not a rich college…” He hesitated. The Master had raised an eyebrow.
“I am not unused to the argument,” he said urbanely, “In a long career in government I have heard it put forward on too many occasions to be wholly convinced that the plea of poverty is as formidable as it sounds. It is precisely the rich who use it most frequently.”
The Bursar was driven to interrupt, “I can assure you…” he Degan but the Master overrode him.
“I can only invoke the psalmist and say Cast thy bread upon the waters.”
“Not to be taken literally,” snapped the Senior Tutor.
“To be taken how you wish,” Sir Godber snapped back. The members of the Council stared at him with open belligerence.
“It is precisely that we have no bread to throw,” said the Bursar, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.
The Senior Tutor ignored his efforts. “May I remind you,” he snarled at the Master, “that this Council is the governing body of the College and…”
“The Dean reminded me earlier in the meeting,” the Master interrupted.
“I was about to say that policy decisions affecting the running of the College are taken by the Council as a whole,” continued the Senior Tutor, “I should like to make it quite clear that I for one have no intention of accepting the changes outlined in the proposals that the Master has submitted to us. I think I can speak for the Dean,” he glanced at the speechless Dean before continuing, “when I say we are both adamantly opposed to any changes in College policy.” He sat back. There were murmurs of agreement from the other Fellows. The Master leant forward and looked round the table.