Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“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

romise 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.